A Drug for Angels
by Ninazadzia
Summary: He can have any girl he wants, but for some reason, he picks his psychotic district partner. Cato is the absolute worst thing for me, and it goes both ways. But I'll be damned if the worst thing doesn't feel like the best thing. Cato/Clove, set during the 74th Games. *NOW COMPLETE*
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is something I've had in my head that I felt the need to write down. This fic is not meant to be artsy or different or award-winning by any means, its purpose is to satisfy us Cato/Clove shippers out there, because Suzanne (genius that she is) didn't give us a whole lot to work with. I hope you guys enjoy this, I had a blast writing the first few chapters of this fic. It'll probably wind up being somewhere South of 15K, that's my estimate from what I've written so far.

Blessings,

Vikki

_A Drug for Angels_

By Wild Pomegranate

_Chapter One_

I know I'm insane. I know something's wrong with me. And that's why I like _me_ so much.

"Jesus, Clove!"

It's Wednesday, and that means we have sparring. I don't mind physical contact with the other trainees, but I'm not the biggest fan of it. Going weaponless makes me feel naked—the only time I don't have a knife on me is when I'm in the shower. It's not like anyone will hurt me here in sheltered District Two, but it's a force of habit. Being without knives doesn't make me totally incompetent, though.

Take sparring, for example.

Alia has me grabbed by the hair, and it's so amateur I almost roll my eyes. In a matter of seconds, I have her back in a headlock, flipped over on her side and leaving her to thrash on the floor. I don't even realize it when my hand goes for her windpipe.

"Thank you, Clove, that's enough."

I look up and I'm facing Marius. To our district he's a peacekeeper—to me, he's my teacher.

I get to my feet, tightening my ponytail as Alia sits up, coughing and shooting glares in my direction, I'm sure. But I don't look at her. I look at the faces of my other classmates—as I was fighting I noticed the room had gone silent. That doesn't usually happen when Alia and I are fighting other people, because the winner is always us, and everyone knows it. Alia and I are the frontrunners in our academy. This showdown was something that _everyone_ (regardless of gender) wanted to see.

Alia's friends, who usually whisper amongst themselves whenever I'm around, don't look like they have anything to say. Even her suitors seem to be dumbfounded. I notice that Cato, who usually has something to say about _everything,_ is quiet.

_Good, _I think. _I guess your girlfriend isn't the total package after all._

XXX

There isn't a whole lot I have to say on the topic of District Two's golden boy. I've known the kid for forever—being the top of his class, he's notorious. Over the years we would subconsciously make a point to talk to one another, spending the bulk of our training time over by the blades station, which feels like home to us. Even though he's the school charmer and I'm basically an outcast, we get along. It's easy to talk about knives, at least.

He probably thinks I'm crazy, like the rest of them do. But at least he respects me.

I walk off the mat, throwing the best grin I can in Alia's direction. Cato turns to me.

"Good job," he says.

I don't say anything, I'm making a beeline for the knives and Cato isn't exactly on my list of priorities. He walks behind me—he's probably headed to swords himself. "Looks like the knife girl can do more than hit bullseyes."

_Ugh. _He's so cocky.

"If I'm going to win the Games, I'll have to be well rounded," I say.

"What makes you think you'll be picked?"

I glare at him. There are ten people in my grade, and when we turn eighteen, only one of us could volunteer. He smirks, saying, "Kidding," and he grabs a knife and throws at a target. It's not a bulls-eye, but it's pretty damn close.

"You know enough about swords and knives," I say. I take one from my belt, throwing it at the furthest target. A dead-on bulls-eye. "Word on the street is that Mikael beat you in the mile last week—I'd get on that if I were you."

He clamps his hands into a fist, and I can tell I've hit a soft spot. "I guess I should. But I'm not sweating it—I hardly train to begin with. I'll beat him tomorrow. Sides, you shouldn't be talking—you've easily been here an hour today."

I don't give him a response because to be honest, he's pissing me off. He could do that sometimes.

"Your sparring's pretty good," he says after a few minutes.

"Yeah. Better than your girlfriend's."

He laughs. "She's not my girlfriend." He throws a knife, and this time, he hits a bulls-eye.

"Let's hope she doesn't hear that. She'll be devastated."

We both laugh at that. He's right, because to him, Alia isn't anything special—he's been leading girls on since before he could walk. Lethal as Alia might be, she's stupid as hell. How many of her friends had gotten with Cato before? Clearly, the girl can't see Cato for the charmer he is.

Oh, yeah, Cato has this habit of having to be the best at everything—he has to be the strongest, the fastest, and whatever girl he's screwing around with has to be gorgeous at the very least. By now, he'd been with most of the seventeen and eighteen year old trainees. He could've tried something with me, but for some reason, he never did. It's probably because I'm too young and too mentally unsound for his liking—either that or he has a glimmer of respect for me. He wouldn't be throwing knives with me, otherwise.

I'm not going to deny it—I can see why the other girls fawn over him as much as they do. Maybe if I wasn't so keen on winning these Games, I'd give it a shot myself.

XXX

"Fuhrman, Ludwig."

Cato and I snap around at the sound of our names a few days later. Like usual, we're there before anyone else is, warming up at the blades station and going at it with the swords. Marius is waving us over, turning on his heel as he walks into his office.

"I wonder what that's about."

"I guess they don't want us at knives," Cato says as drops his sword. "D'you think he's going to scold us? We're only supposed to be at this station for three hours a week."

"Doubt it. I exceeded that limit my first day here."

"Yeah, if they were going to start enforcing that rule, there's no reason to start now."

He smiles, not having to finish his sentence, because I know what he means. The Games are exactly ten weeks away, which is usually when the selected tributes start to spend intensive time focusing on their strengths instead of the menial requirements (which is running, plants, and Games History for most). In the event Cato and I are picked, it wouldn't make much of a difference, anyhow, since we both grew up around swords and knives.

As we walk into the office, though, I'm expecting some lecture about how I never handed in my essay on the strategies used in the 64th Games, and maybe something about Cato not meeting his expectations in the mile. Little stuff. Just a few nit-picky things before our end of year evaluations, that's all.

We take a seat, and it barely crosses my mind that my academics and Cato's are completely unrelated. All I'm thinking of is the look on Marius' face, which I'm having a hard time reading.

Before he can open his mouth, I say, "If this is about that essay, I stand by what I said—there's no point in writing about a year that's already so famous, Finnick Odair has more limelight than ten other victors combined—"

"And Marius, don't even start about that mile, I'll get Mikael by our exams—"

"_Enough."_

It's enough to shut us both up, because we're his favorites and he's never used this tone with us before.

"Your essay can be handed in at a later date, Clove." He turns to Cato. "And as far as that mile goes, I expect to see significant drops within the next two weeks. If the two of you spent less time in blades, then these problems would be solved in no time, I'm sure."

Cato—who's blonde haired and blue eyed—turns red immediately, and I clench my hands into a fist. "Is that why we're here?"

"No." Marius' eyes flicker away from our faces for a second before he leans forward in his chair, dropping his voice the smallest bit. "I don't know how I'm going to phrase this . . . well, I guess I'll start with a pop-quiz. Cato—how many years has it been since District Two has crowned a victor?"

He barely has to think before saying, "Seven, if you don't include this year."

He looks at me for a second, and I'm rolling my eyes. Typical, cocky Cato.

Marius ignores his comment. "Correct, seven years. That's seven years too many, and not only by our Districts standards, but by the Capitol's. Mayor Regent has been lenient with us recently, but he's made it very clear now—this is the year that District Two needs a winner."

Cato's looking at me again, only this time, he doesn't have a smirk on his face. I could tell what's he's thinking. _Could it be…?_

"Is that what this is about?" I ask. "Who's going to volunteer for tribute? Because if I had to cast a vote for the girls, I'd go with Alia."

And now Cato's the one rolling his eyes. "He means _you_, Clove."

"Yeah, no shit." I'm acting as indifferent as I can be, but on the inside, my heart is racing.

Marius isn't unsettled at all, because this is a reaction he was probably expecting. "I talked to the board, and we're well aware that this isn't a practice we usually condone, since by typical standards, fifteen is too young. But you two _are _our best and brightest. As far as the lovely Miss Roy is concerned,—"now he's talking about Alia—"her spot in these Games would be put to better use if it went to you, Fuhrman."

And, for a minute, all of my skepticism disappears, because I can't help the blood rushing to my cheeks from one of Marius' rare compliments. My signature smirk stretches across my face.

Now he turns to Cato. "I know you're not surprised. But if you so much as slack one day in the next ten weeks, the spot goes to Mikael."

"I know."

"Don't assume we will let your arrogance slide anymore." He thinks for a second and turns to me. "That goes for both of you."

"So what about exams?" I ask.

"You will take them in two weeks as normally planned, with the same precedents as if this conversation never happened—exams decide who goes to the arena and who doesn't. The difference is that since you two will already know who's been selected, your scores are expected to be . . . exceptional."

I can tell Cato's mulling this over in his head, but honestly, my head was somewhere else entirely from the second he said "the spot would be put to better use if it went to _you_."

Not Alia, me.

"And that's it?" Cato says. "We keep it from the others?"

"That's it."

And now I return to reality because Cato's expecting a reaction from me, even though he doesn't show it. He doesn't turn to face me again and he doesn't have to say anything, because I know what's running through his head. _Going into the Games as a fifteen-year-old, stacked up against built eighteen-year-olds like me—do you have what it takes?_

Yes, so there is some mutual respect between the two of us, but there's still a question of whether or not we actually _like_ each other as people. I think he's more self-absorbed than he's worth, and he probably thinks I'm completely psychotic. It's not like I care. Idle chit-chat at the blade station usually consists of us bashing our classmates—it's not the healthiest bond in the world, and Cato is definitely a bond I could deal without.

He's just a boy I throw knives with.

My smirk never falters. "May the best District Two tribute win," I say to Marius.

XXX

Weeks pass, and with little time at all, the Reaping is staring myself and Cato in the face. Commenting on exams is useless, because the turnout of that was no surprise—Alia had her ass handed to her. Even categories I barely brushed over (like history and plants) I swept her in. I'd say something about Cato, but to put it bluntly, I didn't pay much attention to his performance, or anyone else's except for Alia's. She's the only remote competition I have. Immediate competition is what needs focusing—I can deal with Cato when I get to the arena.

I grew up around blades not because my parents were conditioning me to be a future victor, but because we lived in an apartment complex where the floor below us was a store for novelty weaponry. I worked there once I turned thirteen to make a quick buck, while my father worked in armory full time. He doesn't like the Games too much, and has little to no respect for the victors—"you need to be insane to be a Victor." What he didn't know was that when he said that to me at the very malleable age of seven, I was hiding Capitol magazines of victors like Finnick and Enobaria under the floorboards. I wanted to be just like them—I wanted the fame and fortune, but more than anything else, I wanted something to fight for, because I spent most of my childhood too goddamn _bored _to remember having anything to care about.

That's when I decided to become insane. Because when that would happen, I would be one step closer to winning the Games, giving me eleven years of fight and preparation and all of the fame and glory and respect I would ever want when I did win.

He doesn't say much when we're in the Justice building after the Reaping—he walks into the door and throws his arms around me, acting as if a lifetime of hostility never existed.

"Father—"

"Dad. Clove, call me dad." He faces me, and the sight of the tears welling in his eyes is enough to send me reeling in shock. He wipes them away, saying quickly, "I'm going to keep this short, since I know you have more on your mind right now. But I'm sorry, Clove. I'm sorry that your mother and I couldn't build the home that was right for you."

The mention of my mother makes me grit my teeth. Her and my father ended their marriage when I was eleven, and as far as I'm concerned, I'm dirt in her eyes. "If you'd built any other home, I wouldn't be here right now."

"And that's why I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath. "I don't want this for you, and you shouldn't want this. Nobody in their right mind should want this."

"Dad, if all you're going to do is make a comment about how crazy you think I am, you should leave."

He ignores this. "It might not always seem it, but Clove, I really do care—"

And as he's leaning in for another hug and is barely able to keep it together, I find myself almost slapping him away. "Don't start, not now. Not after fifteen years of not caring."

And to that he doesn't have much to say. I can tell I've hurt him, and all I think is_ "good." _Being his first and only child, he didn't have the right to fifteen years of emotional absence—now, whether by fame or by death, he'll have to deal with a whole lifetime of knowing he's lost me.

He barely manages to choke out, "We'll talk when you come home, then," before turning on his heel and running out, wiping his eyes furiously as the door slams behind him. I sit back down, looking at the clock and wanting the hour to pass faster. I'd have no other visitors. There was an incredibly slim chance my mother would make an appearance after four years of not seeing her, but to no surprise, she doesn't. Good. Hurting my father is an unexpected bonus from becoming a tribute, but I don't have any reason to hurt mom. Besides, deep down, I always kind of liked her. She kept me grounded, even though she wasn't around for to watch me grow up.

As I look to the door that I know will have no other visitors pass through for Clove Fuhrman, I think of the number of people that are probably saying their goodbyes to Cato right across the hall, and how all of them will lose sleep worrying about him in the next few weeks, more so than my mom ever will about me.

XXX

A/N: I hope you guys enjoyed this! Please, feel free to review or contact me if you have any feedback. Yes, I know that Cato and Clove's last names _aren't_ Fuhrman and Ludwig—but I can make parallels to the movie if I want. (That and I absolutely _loved _Isabelle Fuhrman and Alexander Ludwig in it . . . #sidenote.)

Song title is from Florence and the Machine's _Strangeness and Charm_

Check out my other Hunger Games fics!

_Words Not Spoken_

_The Other Games_

_Little Girl, Gentle Giant_

_Dangerous Waters_

xoxo

Vikki


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: It's safe to say that I'm in love with these two right now. That's the only comment I have to make :D

_A Drug for Angels_

By WildPomegranate

_Chapter Two_

The Games draw closer, and I don't panic, not even in the slightest. I have Enobaria as my mentor and Cato as an ally, which covers the two biggest concerns I had. As far as I'm concerned, it's smooth sailing from here. Now all I have to do is win.

We're sitting down to breakfast the morning of our first day, and it's off to the training center in an hour. "I'm sure you two know what the plan is," Enobaria tells us in between shovels of steak. "Make your alliances—definitely District One, and maybe Districts Three and Four, but only if they're useful. And I'm sure this doesn't need to be said, but remember, you guys are the frontrunners and you're going to show it. Whatever you think scary is, I want you to amp it up. Make it clear that no one else is going to win."

While her and Cato go at the meat, I don't touch my food—prime ribs aren't exactly the breakfast of champions by my book. Enobaria notices this and says, "Eat up, we're going to have to fill you out a lot in the next week."

"I don't do fat."

She rolls her eyes. For a thirty-year old, she has an awful lot of attitude. "Eat. Now. How much do you weigh, one-twenty?"

"One-twenty three, actually."

"Solid as a rock I'm guessing?"

"Does it _look_ like I have any fat?"

Now Cato's rolling his eyes. "Enobaria, one-twenty three's fine, she's pretty short—"

"Shut it," she snaps. Now she has her hand slammed down against the table. I can tell Cato's scared (or is at the very least feeling respectful) because he doesn't fight her, and he can never resist fight. Then again, I don't blame him—we practically grew up watching Enobaria's famous windpipe-crushing bite in the 62nd Games. The woman is downright terrifying. "I know what it's like, being a tribute—you two think you're the shit, and to be honest, you probably are. If I had to put my money on anyone, it'd be one of you. But I'm going to set one very basic ground rule right now—_I'm _the mentor. What I say goes. I remember what it was like being top of the Academy—I bet all of the instructors put up with your bitching." I grab the edge of the table, furious, and Enobaria notices. She almost smiles as she continues. "From now on though, you listen to me. No questions asked. I'm the one that won one of these, not you."

She stops talking, stabbing a sirloin with her fork and bringing the chunk of meat to her face, admiring it with an almost wicked grin. "You see this?" she says as she wags it in my direction. "This is thirty grams of protein, over a thousand calories and more than one-hundred percent of what I bet your daily fat intake used to be, Clove." She narrows her eyes and drops the sirloin on my plate, glaring at me. "_Eat it."_

I look to her, to the sirloin, and to Cato. His expression is hard to read, but from all of the years I've spent around him, I can tell what's running through his head. So I take his blank stare as pity, I decide it's pity I don't want, and I shove the chunk of meat down my throat. All the while, Enobaria's watching, not smiling or giving any sign of satisfaction.

"Better get used to that, Clove," she tells me. "There's a lot more where that came from."

XXX

And, as far as our strategy goes, Cato and I spend those first few days at the training center putting it in action. Our directions are simple—make our alliances, make them obvious, and make it clear that none of the others stand a chance.

"Still insane?" he asks, right before we step into the center.

"Still a vicious, killing-machine?"

He's trying to suppress a smile. "Let's do this."

Of _course_ Cato makes a beeline for District One—not only is that Enobaria's advice, but as an unexpected bonus, the girl's a blonde bombshell. I saw the way he looked at her at the opening ceremonies, and now that they're talking, the sexual tension between them is practically tangible. Her name's Glimmer. She's good with a sword and a mace, and yeah, she has the sex-appeal thing going for her, but her potential as a Victor ends there. Maybe it's my opinion, and it's not like I doubt her intelligence or anything . . . but you need to be downright _brilliant_ to win the Games. She's smart, alright, but what she lacks physically she doesn't make up mentally, and I know it'll be the death of her.

But that doesn't make me hate her any less.

The guy from One's alright—his name's Marvel. He's obsessive, like me and Cato are, but I can tell there might be a few reasons other than the Games as to why he's so aggressive during our days at the training center.

"What're you trying to do, kill me?" I snap at him one day. We're going at it with the swords, and I'm panting, trying to catch my breath. The kid's on a rampage, slicing in blind rage everywhere. I know we're supposed to be intimidating, and I'm selling that angle pretty hard myself, but this is something else.

He stops, but doesn't apologize. "Not yet, Clove. We're still allies."

He's panting too, which keeps my ego from deflating too badly. I'm still pissed off as make our way to the next station, passing Glimmer and Cato as they walk to camouflage. They're flirting, of course, and this sends Marvel into a fit.

"You're being obvious," I tell him. "You're supposed to be lethal, not love-sick."

"Like you should be telling me what to do."

"I might be fifteen, but I'm smarter than you, don't even deny it."

Cato would've gone at me if I'd said something like that to him, but Marvel just rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, those two are annoying as hell."

And I see what he means. As the days wear on, I spend less time at stations with Cato and more time with Marvel, because Cato and Glimmer are too busy spending time with each other and going at it with swords. Well, then again—any other district's complete and one-hundred-percent zeroed in focus wouldn't come close to the training we're doing. And, all right, Cato is working even harder than usual—but a part of me wonders if it's to show off. It isn't like he could afford to be lazy around his girl.

"How're those steaks treating you?" Cato asks me one day at lunch.

I don't appreciate this statement. I wasn't vegan because I didn't believe in animal cruelty, I was vegan because I thought—scratch that, _think_—meat is too high in fat. Granted, I can practically feel myself gain weight as the meat makes its way to my stomach, but I wake up feeling more sluggish than I normally do.

In response, I flip open a knife, putting my steak down and absentmindedly throwing my knife in the direction of a dummy. It whizzes past District Five's head and sticks right into the dummy's heart.

"You better stay focused, Cato. Your training's all show, no value," I say.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

I glare at him. I don't need to say another word, because Cato knows me, and he knows what I'm thinking.

"Her?" he asks. He laughs. "It's called an alliance for a reason, Clove."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean you two have to get friendly."

"Well, I have a lot more than just friendship on my mind . . ."

He looks away as he says it under his breath, but still, it's there. Cato and I never have conversations like these, not even about Alia._ Never._

"I wonder what Alia would have to say to that."

He snorts, and as he gets up and starts walking over to plants, says, "Alia who?"

XXX

I'm a lot of things—I'm mentally unstable, I'm arrogant, and I'm vicious. But if there's one thing I'm not, it's fake. I don't put up with BS from anyone, and I don't lie. So I'm not going to put up with Glimmer's fake little let's-be-friends-before-we-have-to-slit-each-other's-throats-act, because it's an act I've seen before, and I'm not buying it.

My instructions are to make allies, not friends. It's not like I've ever made a friend before anyway.

"Clove, sit next to me today," she says during lunch.

She flashes one of her smiles, and I don't return it. "I think I'll sit next to my District partner."

She doesn't falter, and Marvel gives me an appreciative glance. I know what's going on there, it doesn't take a rocket scientist to figure it out. When Cato walks over and sees the last available seat is by me, I expect some eye-rolling, some snarky comment, _something._ All he does is shrug and take his place.

"Have we cracked Eleven yet?" he asks.

Marvel replies. "No."

"We should give it a rest, he's not budging," Glimmer adds.

"Are you crazy?" I say it with my typical brashness, and now everyone's staring at me.

"If he doesn't want to be part of our alliance, we'll deal," Glimmer counters, her tone almost incredulous. "We're an alliance of four, and he has no one—I don't think it's anything we can't handle."

"He's six and a half feet tall and three hundred pounds, you're an _idiot_ to think we can take him." I don't even realize I'm shouting.

Now Glimmer's taking it personally, and she responds sarcastically, "Well, you're smarter than me, so I guess we should all listen to what _you_ say." She says it with a fake smile that only a bottle blonde could deliver like she does.

And, I turn to Cato, because I hear him laughing, and it's so frustrating it's enough to make me want to _strangle _him. _How_ can he take this like a joke? And the _nerve_ of Glimmer—I don't know who she thinks she is.

Marvel, to his never-ending credit, scowls and says, "Ease up, you two. Save the catfights for the finals."

"I don't want any catfights," she says. She keeps smiling. "Clove's my friend, I'm not going to fight her."

I can basically feel the vomit in my throat. "If I had to start with friendship, it wouldn't be now, and it wouldn't be with you," I say as I get up to leave.

I smirk, because I know the look on her face. She's shocked, obviously surprised that I'm ballsy enough to say something like that. Good. Even Cato suppresses his fit of laughter and watches me walk away like I've just slaughtered a puppy. Yeah, so maybe I've just made an enemy, but I couldn't care less. An alliance is an alliance—that doesn't mean we have to like each other. Cato's making a sport out of pissing me off, and I'm loathing him at the moment, but I won't come after him in the arena until I have to.

Then again, Glimmer's a different story. I haven't known her all my life, and my respect for her is non-existent. Killing her is something I'm looking forward to. I'm sure that goes both ways.

Cato doesn't bring up the incident between me and Glimmer until the next morning, which is—ironically enough—the morning of the Games. Nerves have us both up well before our usual seven AM breakfast call, so when I slip into the hall on the way to breakfast, I'm not surprised to see Cato already there.

Of course, he's not eating. He's going at it with the punching bag, and he's so loud I'm surprised he didn't wake me up sooner.

"Don't _exert_ yourself, dipshit."

He doesn't turn around until he gets one last punch in. "Morning to you too, sunshine."

"Are you done punching yet?"

"Keep up the comments and you _might _just be my next target."

I roll my eyes. "It's too early to deal with you."

I make a beeline for the fridge, and as I'm making breakfast—no meat since Enobaria isn't around to tell me what to do—Cato walks over. "You know, that was too funny yesterday, you and Glimmer."

"What're you talking about?"

"She puts on the fake-bitch act, and you pretend to be insane—"

"I'm not pretending," I snap.

He snorts. "An insane person doesn't know she's insane."

"Oh, so you're calling it an act."

"Not an act," he says, "But you're definitely exaggerating."

I wield out a knife and have him slammed against a wall so fast, he doesn't know what hit him. His body makes a loud _thump_ as I pin him down with my forearm.

"I could do it, you know," I breathe, my face inches from his. "I could take you down. We're talking about acts? Well, don't act like you're not scared of me."

He doesn't fight, doesn't resist, and smiles at me like I'm the most amusing thing in the world. "You wouldn't."

"Try me."

"We have an alliance and I'm from your district, you wouldn't do that."

"What does being from the same district have to do with anything?"

He scowls and pushes me off of him like I was a rag doll. "Oh, don't pretend."

"Don't pretend what?"

"Don't pretend like you don't care. Otherwise we wouldn't have spent the last five years throwing knives together."

I freeze. I want to say more, but Enobaria's running into the room now, groggy and hungover and _pissed._

"What the _hell_ is this?" she barks. She storms over, grabbing the knife from me and whipping to Cato's direction. "You. Are you hurt?"

"No," he answers.

And now she's turned to me. "Did you attack him? Huh, is that what you're playing? Going after your district partner before the Games begin?"

And when she's grabbed me by the wrists, Cato interjects, saying "Lay off her, Enobaria."

"It was only an argument," I snap, trying not to wince. Her nails are digging into my skin.

She looks back and forth from both of us, frustrated, before letting me go. She points at us accusingly and says, "Final two. That's the _only _time you're allowed to turn on each other. Got it? I don't care if the only person left is that shrimp from Eleven, you don't go at it until everyone else is dead."

"You want us to keep an alliance the entire Games?" I ask.

"No. Break it off when One's dead, keeping an alliance past that might give the audience the wrong idea."

Cato and I look to each other, confused. "What're you talking about?"

"I'm selling what the sponsors want to buy, and those are the bloodthirsty tributes from District Two. This isn't District Twelve—I don't want you looking anything like friends or even a _pair_. The capitol spins all kinds of stories about their tributes." She pauses, crossing her arms and having her contorted expression become a smirk.

I'm blushing, because I've already figured out what she's saying. Cato's still processing it though. "Stories being . . .?"

And now she's walking away, but not before she casually says over shoulder, "Actually, don't worry about it. If I see you two getting too friendly, I'll make sure it doesn't reach the cameras."

XXX

A/N: I'm not entirely sure if I meant to enlist Enobaria as a Clato shipper, but . . . eh! :D I know it's been slow on the romance so far, but I'm trying to develop it. It's coming though, promise. Hopefully I'm walking that fine line of Clove being _just _human enough, I'm typically an angst writer but I can't quite bring myself to write the twisted Clato angst we all know and love, so I decided to take the human route. Let me know if it's working.

Thanks a ton to those of you that have reviewed so far. Feedback honestly means the world to me, I can't stress that enough.

Blessings,

Vikki

Pimping out my other fics:

**Peetniss**—_Words Not Spoken_ (a fluffy, sweet one-shot)

**Rue/Thresh—**_Little Girl, Gentle Giant_ (I tap into Thresh's head, sad but fulfilling. Two-shot.)

**Glato—**_The Other Games_ (sexually charged, cocky Cato/gorgeous Glimmer. One-shot.)

**Finnick/Johanna—**_Dangerous Waters_ (one-sided, guarded emotions. One-shot.)


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Let the record show, I'm head over heels in love with these two. Clato is quickly becoming an OTP of mine, in between all of the fanfiction I've been reading and writing. It's a shame they didn't win! I'm sure their relationship dynamic would've been much more fulfilling than Peeta's and Katniss's.

Anyway, here's some more character building for you. Enjoy xx

Vikki

_A Drug for Angels_

By WildPomegranate

_Chapter Three_

Oh, my god, _the Games._

You wouldn't know the feeling unless you were in it, and even then, only a Career would understand where I'm coming from. Because the adrenaline is rushing through me as it can only because I _know_ that I'm going to win. Every kill I make and step I take is one step closer to the end of it all, when I'll be bathed in fame and fortune and have just about anything I'll ever want. But that's only half the fun.

I can _kill._

I can slash blindly and madly or I can kill lazily and from a distance, slowly and painfully or fast and merciful, it's all up to me. All because I know that I can't _be _killed—not yet at least. I'm sure the fun will wear off one Cato and Glimmer and Marvel become more imminent threats. But for now, I don't stop at killing—all of my limitations are suspended.

These Games aren't about limitations.

That's not what my sponsors want, that's not what Enobaria wants, and that's not what my audience wants. They want the vicious, insane knife-thrower from District Two. So that's exactly what they see.

And, on the inside, it all feels _right._

XXX

Oh, my god, the _Games._

For everything that's good, there has to be something bad. I know that. I love the Games, but at the same time, I hate them. I hate them for reasons I can never admit.

From the second the gong goes off, my alliance with Cato, Glimmer and Marvel is set in stone. We make an unexpected addition with District Twelve, too. I think he's a whiney asswipe, but if Cato sees worth in him then that's good enough for me.

And now I'm angry, because I'm thinking about Cato, and because him and Glimmer are the most frustrating thing in the world.

I don't give a flying fuck about Cato's relationships, because I know that at the heart of them, there's nothing there. Just like with Glimmer, who isn't any different from Alia, or Mara, or Leesh, or any of the other girls he's banged. The difference between Glimmer and the corner whores at our Academy, however, is that Glimmer seems to be giving Cato a run for his money.

It pisses me off.

"What's got you so worked up, Clove and spice?"

_Clove and spice. _Only an idiot like _her _could ever come up with a nickname like that.

I don't turn to face her, because I know what I'll see. I'll see Cato's arm draped around her shoulder as we walk in the moonlight of our first night in the arena. And it'll take everything in my power not to kill her.

I decide not to answer her.

"Yeah, you seem pretty tense."

Okay, so Cato I don't have an issue answering too.

"Shut up," I snap. "Thirteen gone isn't enough. We should be moving faster." Maybe that isn't the exact source of my tension, but the killing is definitely riling me up. I'm getting anxious—I want as much blood on my hands as I can have.

Marvel snorts. "Sure, Clove. That's definitely it."

I give him the best glare I can. To his credit, the look I get back is a combination of an eye-roll and a sympathetic wink.

Later in the night, once Cato and Glimmer are fast asleep, I ask Marvel about it as we take watch. "What was that, back there?" I demand.

"What're you talking about?"

"When we were walking back, with Glimmer and Cato—"

"_Oh." _He laughs. "Listen, don't come at me with your knife or anything, I was only joking—"

"Not that. I can deal with sarcasm. What was with the wink?"

And now he's giving me a look similar to the one I get from Cato sometimes, where he acts as if I'm being ridiculously stupid and it's enough to make him think I'm the funniest thing in the world. I wield a knife from my belt, holding it up to Marvel's face. He throws his hands up, sweating the smallest bit.

"Hey, easy there. It didn't mean much of anything."

"Yeah, well I'm surprised it meant anything at _all_," I say through grit teeth.

He frowns, swatting my knife away like it's a bug. "The more defensive you get, the more it looks like you have something to hide."

"What would that be?"

"I don't know, obviously—you've already figured out that I'm a dumbass. But if I had to guess . . ." And just when I think I'm about to get an answer, he stops, a small smile on his face. "Never mind."

And as abruptly as that, he gets up from where he was, walking in the direction of his tent. "Where the hell d'you think you're going?" I ask.

"My shift's over."

"What, so that's how we're ending this—you're too much of a pussy to say what you think I'm hiding?"

"I'm not being a pussy, I'm being smart," he snaps. "Yeah, we have an alliance, but you're excited to kill me, and I can see that. I don't want to give you any reason to do it sooner."

He's right, in a way. Another word out of his mouth _would_ have provoked me, and like he's proven, provoking a girl that's mentally unstable is dangerous.

Then again—Cato doesn't seem to think I'm unstable, so I don't know where the hell that leaves me.

XXX

On the third morning, I wake up to screams and hallucinations.

I don't stop to look for Cato, Marvel or Glimmer, and I keep my knife clutched in my hand is if it's a lifeline. I sprint without direction, swatting the wasps when I can and coughing up blood as they engulf me—well, maybe not _engulf, _but it sure as hell feels like it. Because the pain is _searing._ It's pure and ruthless and it's shooting through my veins, which is much worse than any old flesh wound.

It doesn't even take me a minute to process what's happened.

We'd been chasing the Girl on Fire. We had her cornered, injured and up in a tree, like a defenseless animal waiting for slaughter. All we had to do was wait her out. That idea was, obviously, Lover Boy's—if I'd had it my way, I would've chucked knives at her until she was nailed in the face.

But then again, that dirty bitch has a lot more coming for than just a head wound. But I can't think about that now—now I need to _get the hell out of here. _I'll have all the time in the world to plot her death.

I'm running alongside Marvel. Cato seems to have disappeared. Now I'm panicking, because my district partner is gone and I have no sense of where he is.

_He couldn't have. No way in hell. It'll take a lot more than tracker jackers to bring him down._

"Cato," I choke. "He's still back there."

But Marvel isn't caring about Cato right now. "Glimmer," he coughs out, doubling over in agony. I rush towards him, helping him up off the ground, but jump away as I see him engulfed in tongues of fire.

"_Holy shit!" _I shriek, jumping back. "Marvel, you're burning."

"What?" he asks groggily.

I clutch my knife, but I know it's useless—a steel blade won't defend me from the cascading flames. "The fire—"

"I'm not on fire, Clove," he snaps. Now he's getting impatient with me.

And then I remember.

_Shit. How could you be so stupid?_

Of course they're tracker jackers—I figured that out the second I woke up to the sound of Glimmer's shrieks and the buzzing. And there isn't really a fire around Marvel, it's a hallucination. But how could I forget that in a moment like this? I may be lethal, but brains are just as important. My opponents can't think I've only got the brawn. In order for them to be downright scared, they have to _know_ that I'm a genius.

And now, I've just given Marvel something that could be an essential part of my downfall.

I've shown him that I'm capable of fear.

I straighten my expression out, putting on the best stony-face I can as I drag Marvel by the ankle and slump him against a tree. I sit down next to him, picking at the stingers in my arms. Enobaria hopefully has enough sense to cut my outburst from the cameras-she definitely doesn't want the sponsors to see that.

_Looks like this year's tributes are too human for you, _I think bitterly.

So as I'm pulling the stingers from my skin, I decide to give the audience a good show. I don't wince, and I pull them without any sense of pain or fear. There's one in my leg that's so deep, I even hack away at it with my knife until it comes out. By the time I have all of them out, I'm a bloody mess, but I don't show any sign of caring about it. These wounds will leave scars—and scars are exactly what an otherwise pretty face from District Two needs.

At least that's what Enobaria's thinking.

About fifteen minutes go by. If a cannon had gone off Marvel and I must've missed it in our delirious haze. We see Cato barreling out of the undergrowth and saying, "She's dead." He then collapses onto the ground in front of us, dropping his bloodied sword with him.

I exchange a glance with Marvel, and neither of us say anything. It's a lot to process.

_She's dead. _

"Something tells me he's not talking about Katniss."

I look up, and Marvel's face is contorted. Of course he cares about Glimmer—I knew that from the day we'd met. But now, our faces are on every television in Panem, and the way we react to this—or rather, the way _he _reacts to this—is crucial.

"Keep it together," I hiss. "You can mourn later."

"You _bitch,"_ he spits at me.

It takes every ounce of willpower I have not to cut him. Even then, I trap him in a headlock, whispering into his ear, "I'm only going to say this once, because this should already be crystal fucking clear. No emotion. No pain. We're careers. Got it?"

I let him go. As far as the audience is concerned, that little scene was nothing more than a typical Career spat.

And now Cato's stirring on the ground. This is all happening so quickly. As if on instinct, I lunge for him, helping him up and getting him to his feet. Marvel picks his sword off the ground and gives it back to him. As he does, he returns a whisper in my ear.

"No pain? When it's Cato, I wonder if you'll react the same way."

Fury. That's all I'm thinking.

I'm spinning to face Marvel, and the force of my rage is almost enough to knock Cato back down to the ground. _Almost._ Instead, as I'm clawing at Marvel with my bare hands, Cato's up and has himself wedged between us, one hand around Marvel's windpipe and the other hand pointing a sword as my neck.

Only a moment goes by where we stand like this. We stand divided, up in arms and ready to fight. This isn't a surprise to anyone—not to me, not to Marvel, and especially not to the audience. But Cato's expression is genuinely wild, and I know there isn't an ounce of orchestration behind it. While Marvel and I are more than aware of what we're doing and how we'll have to stop before we go at it, Cato is poised for attack.

I hold my hands up, and when Marvel manages to choke out "Cato," my wild-eyed district partner lowers his sword and loosens his grip around Marvel's neck. And now Marvel's on the ground, gasping for air as Cato looks me dead in the eye. It's only for a moment, but a long one at that.

He's not wearing the same expression Marvel gave me. I don't see pain in Cato's eyes.

_He feels nothing for Glimmer._

"She's really dead," I say. It was meant to come out as a question, but it doesn't.

"The jackers got to her before I could," he says. His tone is emotionless.

I know that we all want to take a minute to let it sink in. Though I knew her very little in life and hated her even then, she's left behind a complicated mess for me to deal with.

Marvel has a girl back at home—that much I know. But in the raw moments where we found out about Glimmer's death, his reaction made me think, just maybe, that he was fighting an internal battle alongside the physical one as far as Glimmer went.

Maybe he still is.

But I don't know what to make of Cato right now. And I don't think I want to. All I know is that whatever fling him and Glimmer had is over, and that it's left him vengeful.

I would've thought more than that if we had more time to let it all sink in. But if there's one thing we don't have in the arena, it's time.

"Let's move," Cato says gruffly.

XXX

Without another word about Glimmer, we make our way back through the forest and to the Cornucopia. District Three—who we enlisted as an ally only hours before—kept watch while we were hunting Twelve.

Jesus. Twelve.

"Are you going to wash the blood off your sword, Cato?" I ask him.

He holds it up to his face, looking at the crimson with admiration. "One guess, Clove. Who else d'you think I've killed?"

"Twelve, obviously."

He snorts. Marvel's lit a fire, and in the light of it, Cato's eyes are the farthest thing from vacant. His expression isn't emotionless like the one I saw earlier—but it's not so wild, either. His eyes get very wild when he's ready to fight, the polar opposite being empty . . . like when Glimmer died.

No. Now I can't place the look he's giving me.

The Capitol anthem plays through the night. The four of us look up at the sky, and we only see Glimmer's face shining above us.

"Huh. Would you look at that," Cato taunts. "Lover-boy actually survived that."

"You didn't check to make sure he was dead?" I snapped.

And now, Cato's snorting, and I know that he's reverting back to his ever-present asshole glory. "Doesn't matter. I know where I cut him."

"And where's that?"

"His leg."

Cato says it with a smirk, and I can't help but return it. Assuming it was deep enough, Lover-boy is a goner. It'll be a matter of hours before he can't walk, and within days, nature will take its course and he'll be dead.

What a slow, sadistic end.

"I have to say, I'm impressed," I tell him. "I wouldn't have the patience for that."

"Oh really?"

"Really. I'd have to know he was dead—otherwise I'd be too paranoid."

"Well. While we're on the topic, don't expect me to do the same for that little slut from Twelve."

"Good," I say. "She has to die."

He gives me a wicked grin. I'm usually more insane than he is, but I _love _it when he gets like this. "And how d'you think we should go about that?"

And now we're both smiling at each other like maniacs in the firelight, on a homicidal high that can only be quenched when our next target—_her_, the dirty bitch from Twelve—is dead. This is probably what I looked the most forward to in the Games—Glimmer, the expendable tribute she is, is gone. Now Cato's head is back in the Game—literally.

Then a fleeting thought crosses my mind.

_You're a little too happy that Glimmer's dead, Clove._

_ You're a little too happy with your district partner right now._

_ You're a little too happy sitting in front of this fire with him._

I jump ten feet when Marvel snaps at us.

"Could you two _get a fucking room?"_

XXX

A/N: Marvel's kind of a shit character, but since there's so little we know about him he's fun to write. You can kind of give him any demeanor you want, so I figured I'd enlist him as a Clato shipper xD

Anyway, I'm not totally in love with my characterization of Cato and Clove right now—I really like seeing the two of them as having humanity, but I think that I'm making them a little too human. They aren't as messed-up as I'd like them to be. Hopefully I'll have that straightened out in the next few chapters, or at the very least, hopefully their humanity will read a little less OOC.

Review if you have any suggestions as to how I can fix that. Or just review for the hell of it. Really, as long as you review, I'm happy :D

Blessings,

Vikki


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: GAHHH I love these two. Expect me to be rolling with chapters now that I'm a certified cripple (see: profile rant) and be sure to check out my other Hunger Games fanfictions! (have you guys noticed that these plugs are barely even shameless anymore? xD)

Blessings,

Vikki

_A Drug for Angels_

By WildPomegranate

_Chapter Four_

A few days pass and here we are, one week into the Games. Marvel, Cato, myself and District Three have survived the Cornucopia bloodbath—we've survived the tracker jackers, the killings, and Lover-Boy's betrayal. For most tributes, the first stage of the Games is the hard part. That's when the most blood is spilled. But now, sitting one week in, I know that it's only going to get harder for me. This is usually when Careers start turning on one another.

It starts when we hear two cannons after hunting Katniss today.

Our food's been blown up, and Cato's angry. He takes it out on District Three, snapping his neck in blind rage without so much as thinking. And I don't blame him. If I'd been closer, I would've done the exact same thing, because Three is a _fool_, and fools can be just as dangerous as someone like Cato. The first cannon that day goes off in no time at all.

For the minutes after that, the two of us stand there breathless, looking each other in the eye. The same anger is reading in our faces.

"I'll fucking kill you, Twelve!" he screams.

But I know it's futile. Whoever's blown up our supplies is either dead or gone. If it's Twelve, we'll have to wait until the night to find out.

We both stand there, staring into each other's eyes ten feet away. He's looking at me and slowly, I see the rage in his eyes dissipate. Almost as if our anger is tethered together, I feel the boiling blood inside of me subside. Three is dead—he's been punished for his ignorance.

I don't think until later that Cato's looking to me for refuge from his anger.

There's the sound of a second cannon, and like that, our eyes flit to different directions, breaking sight. My gaze wanders to the woods.

_Could it be . . . ?_

Less than two minutes go by before we hear another cannon.

And now I look back to Cato, and the same realization has hit us. It's just me and him standing in this field. We're the two that ran for the Cornucopia when we heard the explosion, while Marvel ran deeper into the woods.

Going into this morning, there were nine of us. Three cannons went off today. One of them is District Three's. The other two, we don't know.

"We should wait here," Cato says, breaking the silence. "Until Marvel gets back."

I nod. I know what's running through his head right now, but decide not to argue. If he wants to pretend one of the cannons isn't Marvel's, I'll play along. But as we sit down to polish off whatever food is left in our bags, I know that the odds are against Marvel. Of the nine of us alive at the start of today, myself and Cato are definitely still in this game. It doesn't seem likely that Thresh died, either, since we haven't seen him since the Games began. One of the cannon's was District Three's. That leaves the little girl from Eleven, Marvel, both from Twelve . . . and then there's someone else . . .

I think for a second. I can't remember the last one, but I figure he (or maybe she) will be dead in no time.

The Capitol anthem sounds, and Cato and I are eating dinner alone together in silence. We both look up to the sky, and now I'm seeing a look on Cato's face I don't know what to make of.

"I bet one of those cannons was Lover-Boy's," I tell him. There has to be _some _way for me to diffuse the tension.

"Yeah. You're right."

"And then probably that brat from Eleven."

He looks to me. He only cares about Marvel medicinally, but I know it would unnerve Cato for him to be dead. It means breaking his alliance with me, which means moving into a stage of the Games neither of us really know what to make of. It might not have been clear earlier, but it is now. The thought of killing me had crossed his mind before, and now he doesn't like the sound of that.

Of course I've imagined killing him before. And I don't know why, but every passing day makes that image more unpleasant.

And now, Marvel's face is in the sky. He's followed by District Three and—lo and behold—the girl from District Eleven. As the hologram signs off for the night, Cato and I don't look to each other. He keeps his face pointed to the sky while I turn to my things, gathering knives and food in my bag.

"I guess that's it," he says. His voice is flat.

"That's it."

We both know what this means. One's dead. Our alliance is over.

"I'm assuming you'll stay here," I say to him. We might be equal in strength, but I know that he's not budging from the Cornucopia. He's the ringleader, alliance or not. I can challenge his life, and I guess I can challenge his authority for the Cornucopia, but I have better fights to pick. Besides, I never cared much for the Cornucopia anyway.

"That gives you an unfair advantage, doesn't it?" he sneers. Now he's looking at me with empty eyes. "You'll know where to find me when you want to finish me off, but I'll have to hunt you down."

Of _course _he's going to start acting like a cocky asshole. It's his way of hiding that he's upset.

"When you want to find me, you will." I think for a minute, and decide to add, "You know me well enough."

His eyes flit to mine for a second. They don't look so empty anymore.

I take that as my cue to leave. I could provoke him, I could fight him right now, but I listen to Enobaria. Everyone else has to be dead. District Two needs its Victor.

As I take off for the woods, I hear Cato say behind me, "Don't miss me too much."

XXX

I make my way into the woods, deciding to stay clear of Thresh's domain. I'm not going to bother tracking the other tributes tonight-we're getting down to the wire, and searching both at night and without a team is more dangerous than it's worth. I only have one thing to do now.

I walk.

I walk far and fast, trying to keep my pacing steady and my footsteps light. I'm not afraid of the other tributes—I haven't seen Thresh since the Games began. Cato's not going after me anytime soon, and I doubt the red-head from Five ever will. And then there's Lover-boy and the girl from Twelve. As far as Lover-boy's concerned, it's like Cato said—it's a miracle he hasn't bled to death already. But Katniss might be someone to worry about.

"Dirt," I practically spit under my breath. That's what she is to me. She's coal-dusted _filth _from District Twelve, and she doesn't know who she's challenging. Oh, Cato will definitely want to get to her first. But at the moment, I'm despising Cato, so in the dark of night I make a promise to myself that I _will_ be the one to kill her.

_At the moment, I'm despising Cato._

It's true, considering the way he acted tonight. That being said, I'm used to having my classmates act like assholes around me. Some of the guys respect me, but the girls are so afraid of me they treat me like I'm an untouchable savage.

_Aren't you a savage?_

And then there's Cato, and for reasons I'll never know, we threw knives together every day for five years. Some days we talked, and others we didn't. He was the only person that could best me in swords and I was the only person with better aim than him. As far as training goes, we're a stellar team. But I never lost any sleep at night thinking about District Two's golden boy, because there wasn't much to think about.

But as I lay my head down to sleep on _this _night, I wonder if Cato sees more than respect when he looks at me. Maybe he's not upset about Marvel being dead—maybe he's upset because he never wanted our alliance to end.

I snort. "Bullshit."

Alliances are doomed from the Games' start. Whatever feelings Cato has for me, he had to have set them aside the day Marius told us we were District Two's volunteers this year. And Cato doesn't fuck around when it comes to his humanity. I saw what was going on between him and Glimmer—they flirted, he probably banged her at some point, and then just like that, boom. She's dead. He's upset for a split second but it's time to move on. She was nothing more than a toy of his from the start.

Even Marvel's death didn't get the best of him. The tension in the air was tangible earlier tonight, but he kept up his stony resolve like a pro. A part of me wonders how much Cato actually _does_ care. I know the boy pretty well, and I know that just like everyone else, he has feelings.

He hurts and he loves and he loses and he mourns, but only to a very small degree.

I can sympathize.

"You can't feel in this arena," I whisper. And it's true. You can kill, run, hide, fight and die, but never feel. It opens the door to the real world—and in the arena, there is no world. Just the Games.

XXX

"Two Victors may be crowned if they both originate from the same district."

It's early on the eighth morning. I'm up, walking through the forest and hunting Katniss. And then there's the announcement.

_Two Victors may be crowned if they both originate from the same district._

What I say first is kind of a gut reaction, because Katniss is still fresh on my mind and I haven't thought about Cato since last night.

"Good fucking luck with that, Twelve."

And then I remember.

_Cato._

My heart races as I run from the spot, jumping over rocks and logs of wood as I make a sprint through the forest. I'm a few miles out from the Cornucopia, but what does it matter? I'll get there in no time. While my legs work on autopilot, I try to keep my mind clear. Thinking is dangerous. I can think when I meet up with Cato. Now I need to focus on getting there. But even then, the wandering thoughts find a way in.

We can both win. We can both go home and be crowned Victors. We can keep our alliance and kill Twelve together, making it slow and painful and relishing in the company of one another. We can keep each other alive and take some of the loneliness out of this arena.

_Since when d'you have an issue with loneliness, Clove?_

I've been alone my entire life. I've always known it, but I've never really felt it.

Not until now.

I keep running for the field where I know I'll find Cato, and now I'm psyching myself out. Why do I want to _feel _so badly? I've never had any need for it before. I've never needed the company of my parents, much less Cato. All I need is killing. And I have that.

_But you want to feel—you want to feel something for Cato._

And now I stop dead in my tracks, wanting desperately to turn around and take refuge back in the woods. But it's too late, because I've already reached the Cornucopia, and I'm looking my district partner in the eye.

Whatever emotional mess I'm getting myself into, I'll just have to deal with it.

"Looks like our alliance isn't over after all," he says.

He's smiling. I've only ever seen his manic, sarcastic smiles, but this one isn't like that. It's genuine. He looks like a kid that just found Christmas is coming early.

And, oh God, do I resist it. I resist the weird feeling inside of me that I know is more dangerous than any poison, that could be the end to any respect my mentor has for me and that could ultimately be the death of me in this arena.

But I smile back. And it's as real as it can be.

"I guess not," I tell him.

He makes the slightest shift forward, but stops himself. Whatever he wanted to do, I'll never know.

And now he's dropping his voice, whispering to me, "We can't make this reunion look too happy. Enobaria's watching."

And when we both burst out laughing, I know neither of us give a _fuck _about what our audience is seeing, because sponsors don't matter—not anymore, at least. We both can kill, we can kill even better as a team, and we don't need any help from anyone.

Long as we have each other, we're going to be alright.

XXX

A/N:** You've been warned: this author's note is ego-centrically long.**

Ahh, I'm excited to post the next few chapters. I know Clove is annoyingly guarded right now, but rest assured, the romance will come. Until then, if you want some more direct Clato, check out my one-shot _Blessings_. (I know that it's sitting at one review right now, which I'll admit is beyond me, I didn't think it was _that _bad . . . xD)

Speaking of, I highly encourage you all to _join the Review Revolution! _Karma works in wondrous ways, children.

(More housekeeping, my friends,) In less HG related news, I've joined the Cabal! They're a group of very talented writers based out of the iCarly fandom. Here's the tag:

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(Almost done, children,) Plugs for my other Hunger Games stuff!

_Words Not Spoken_ (fluffy Peetniss)

_The Other Games_ (Sexually charged Cato/Glimmer)

_Little Girl, Gentle Giant _(Sad Rue/Thresh) (Two-shot)

_Dangerous Waters _(One-sided Finnick/Johanna)

_Blessings _(Dysfunctional Clato)

All of these are one-shots unless otherwise noted.

PHEW. Well, I think that concludes just about the longest author's note over. Actually, wait, just one more thing:

Review, goddamnit. (less than three) :D

Xoxo Vikki


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: So I know it's been kind of a long wait since my last update, and a payoff of 1,600 words isn't a whole lot, so I'll say first and foremost that I'm sorry I haven't been the speediest updater. But I promise my next update will be much faster, I've written about another four thousand words after this chapter (the juiciest four thousand words of this entire story, if I might add ;D), and I can promise updates for the next two chapters to be within a few days of this one. Think of it as my Memorial Day treat.

Blessings,

Vikki

_A Drug for Angels_

By WildPomegranate

_Chapter Five_

We're setting up a fire the first night of our renewed alliance. The Gamemakers have the temperature on freeze, and even though the two of us are curled up inside of sleeping bags and blankets, it's _cold. _Earlier in the Games, we would've ditched the outerwear and hung out in the cold with nothing but our jackets and jeans. We would've made a sport out of trying to show off just how tough we were—a little bit of weather couldn't mess with _Marvel, _District One's sly boy. Glimmer might look like a damsel in distress, but _she _didn't need a boyfriend's jacket to keep her warn. And me? Blankets wouldn't even be a thought. The only threat I had in this arena were my fellow tributes—rain and wind were tedious, yeah, but it wasn't anything worth showing weakness over.

But it's not early in the Games anymore. And at this point, I've given up on the material I'm broadcasting to Panem. Let my nation and my district think what they want of me. Now, I'm in it to win it, and if I'm going to do that then I have no issue keeping myself warm.

That and I don't worry Cato will take blankets as a sign of weakness. By now, I've proven myself to him.

"Any sign of Katniss?" he asks.

I shake my head.

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I haven't seen her since the tracker jackers."

"D'you think she blew up our food?"

"Probably." His lips curl into a smile. "We'll make her pay for that."

Oh god. Here we go. I _love _these conversations.

For only quasi-theatrical purposes, I wield out a knife, toying with it. "You'll hold her down and I'll cut her to bits?"

"Are you _kidding? _I want at her."

"Too bad. She's mine."

He looks at me, and we hold gazes for a second. I expect him to challenge me on this like the competitor he is, to give me a piece of his mind like he would to Glimmer or Marvel if they were still alive.

Instead, he says. "Fine. We'll take her out together." He notes my smile and adds, "Just save the final blow for me. You can play with her, but I'm ending her."

_Alright. I can handle that. _"Sounds like a deal."

We've talked about how we're going to kill Katniss multiple times—it's become our favorite topic, because the idea of killing her gives us the bloodlust of a kill without actually doing it. But now, Cato's looking down and away from me, poking his sword at the fire as if he can't be bothered.

This isn't the first time this has happened tonight. He strikes up conversation, and ends it almost as abruptly as it starts.

I roll my eyes. "Are you PMSing or something?"

"_What?"_

"You're being so bipolar right now."

"Right. Like you know all about social cues."

I scowl, and it's enough to elicit a snicker from him. "I know enough. And you're acting weird. What the hell is it?"

And there it is again; the laughter, which is both scratchy and low pitched, aimed directly at me and just how fucking _amusing _I am.

"_I hate it when you do that," _I hiss.

"Do what?" he says. He makes a point to laugh at me harder, his grin stretching from ear to ear.

"_That!"_

"Jesus Clove, who's PMSing now?"

I want to nail him with a knife, but we're still in this together. So I kick him instead and knock him on his side. He acts like it's nothing.

"Stop trying to change the subject."

"Well," he says, getting up onto his feet and stretching out, "This arena is starting to take a toll on me, that's it. Don't you want to go home, Clove?"

His question is taunting, because he knows what my answer is. _No. I don't. _Maybe I want to win the Games, but I don't _have _a home. I'm not like Cato—I don't have a family waiting for me, or a harem of suitors that would jump at the chance to give me a welcome-home kiss. I'd have the fame and the glory of a Victor, but I'd always be District Two's outcast.

That is, unless I win the Games with Cato.

In that case . . . I don't know _what _happens. I don't know what that would mean for the rest of our lives. We can't exactly avoid each other afterwards, can we? And even if we can, why would we want to? We'll practically live together, what with the Victor Village being as crowded as it is. I'll see plenty of Cato when I get home.

I'm not sure how I feel about that.

And now the thought of that is making me uncomfortable, and Cato must notice because his expression softens the slightest bit. Okay, actually no—his expression is still mocking me. It's his _eyes _that change. They don't have the same teasing look as they did before.

"What," he asks, breaking the silence, "there's no welcome home party planned for you?"

"No," I snap. "At least there wasn't. But hopefully your endless list of loved ones will save at least one slice of cake for me at _our _welcome home party, right? Or is it still only yours?"

He pauses.

"This isn't about cake, Clove."

I snort. "No _shit."_

He shrugs. "Well, if it's comforting at all, 'endless list of loved ones' is a stretch."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just because they love me doesn't mean I love them."

Huh. That's interesting. The Cato I know back home is quite the crowd pleaser—he knows just how to work people, with the right amount of charm and cockiness to win anyone over. I always kind of figured he doesn't give a rat's ass about most people, but there definitely has to be someone . . .

"Well, then who _do_ you love, Cato?"

Another shrug. Now he's looking at me. "No one specific, really. It changes depending on how I feel. But there are some reoccurring traits in my most-frequently-loved-ones."

"Jeez, being part of that select group must be _such _a privilege," I say sarcastically.

But now he's looking at me seriously, ignoring my sarcasm. "For one, they can't love me too much."

"Hm. Why?"

"Because it's annoying as _fuck _when you're dealing with people pleasers. Like Glimmer," he said. Then he added, "And Alia. And Mara."

"People pleasers?"

"Yeah, you know—people that throw themselves at you. I hate that."

"That's basically every girl you've ever gotten with,."

"I know."

I look at him incredulously. "Well, then why do you _get _with them?"

He laughs at me. "A guy has needs, Clove." I try to hide the blood as it rushes to my face. I'm as vicious as they come, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm a virgin who's never had _any _needs like that. Bloodlust is the only kind of desire I've ever felt.

He could tease me, but he doesn't. He continues. "But yeah, people pleasers I can't stand. Or anyone that tries too hard to impress me. Or basically anyone that goes out of their way to talk to me."

"I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the sound of your ego."

"It's true," he says. "I hate all of that shit."

_"Please _tell me when you're done being an ungrateful brat."

He laughs at me again, but continues. "Guys like me want to be challenged, Clove. There aren't many girls out there that can do that."

I let that sentence replay in my head.

"Since when did this conversation become about girls?" I ask.

"What, isn't that what you meant with my 'endless list of loved ones?'"

"Not necessarily."

"Oh." He smirks. "You know, cause that's what I figured from the jealousy in your voice."

Now my face is _really _flushing. I clench my fists, and one part of me is fuming while the other is—for lack of a better word—_mortified. _

"_No, _I wasn't asking about your past relationships, thanks," I spit, "Because I don't give a shit."

"Sure, Clove."

And now this is all too much for me, because I'm fuming where I sit and Cato's not looking so PMSy anymore. I'd much _rather _him be PMSy, because conversations like this have no place in the Games! We're Careers. We don't feel. We don't talk about our lives and joke around and act like those sluts from Twelve.

The thought forces itself out of my mind before I can stop it.

_I don't know what chemistry Twelve has, but I doubt it's as real as this._

It's enough to make me storm away, grabbing a knife in one hand and brushing the hair out of my face with the other.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asks.

"Leaving. Obviously."

I can't see his expression, but I know it's a scowl. He calls after me, "Awh, c'mon Clove, don't break our alliance, we can both win—"

"I'm not breaking our alliance, you're pissing me off. Excuse me while I go kill someone."

I walk further away from the Cornucopia and plunge into the darkness of the woods. The 'killing' part is kind of a lie, because all I really want to do is lie down on the cold earth and fall asleep _far _away from Cato. This is all so frustrating. Screw him. Screw him and his cocky demeanor and smiles and messing around. Screw his hatred towards girls that throw themselves at him. Screw whatever it is that's making me _care._

As I sit down and slump myself against a tree, at least one reassuring thought crosses my mind.

_I don't think he finds me so amusing anymore._

A/N: Ahh, there. Hopefully the chemistry between them is getting progressively less subtle, because that's what I'm going for. The next two chapters coming up are my two favorites so far, so be sure to check back sometime this weekend.

Also, for those of you that don't already know, I've written a Clato one-shot! It's titled _Blessings. _It's much, MUCH shorter than this as I wrote it in the style of a drabble, and it's definitely darker than this human characterization I have going on. Check it out if you want.

Thank you so much for those of you that review! Your feedback makes my day :D

Blessings,

Vikki


	6. Chapter 6

_A Drug for Angels_

By WildPomegranate

_Chapter Six_

As far as my social life goes, I never had one in District Two. That doesn't mean I'm incompetent, because if I wanted one, I'm sure I could get one—I'm our Academy's top trainee, and even though I try to hide it, I'm not ugly either. And maybe I _am _a naturally vicious person, but that's an attractive quality in District Two. It's my lack of interest in people that brought the downfall of my reputation. My smiles are always manic, my demeanor sarcastic, and the closest contact I've ever had with anyone is Cato, which isn't saying much. I'm sure that I'm respected in District Two amongst the guys (a few of them have even tried messing around with me, but they didn't get very far before receiving a broken limb), but the girls of District Two _hate _me. Especially Alia and her ruling clique.

I didn't care that much about Alia back home, and much less now. But as I woke up on the ninth morning, one conversation was ringing in my head.

Like most of our conversations, it was said in between the grit teeth of our sparring matches.

"Is that all you've got?" she hissed at me. I had her pinned down on the mat. This was about a year ago, back before I was stronger than her. She lifted me off of her like I was a rag doll, wrestling me to the ground. She had a wicked smile on her face. "Hm. Such a pity. Looks like you're weak _and _an outcast."

"I'm outcast that can kick your ass," I spat at her.

"Really? Because right now, you're failing."

White hot fury pulsed threw me as I jumped to my feet, throwing a punch as she evaded and tried to jab me back. We did this back and forth dance for a little while, neither of us backing down and talking under our breaths the entire time.

"Fight me, you bitch," I shot at her.

"I actually think I'll hang out here for a second."

"I said _fight me._"

She wasn't having it, and she kept playing on the defensive, and it seemed so effortless that blood rushed to my cheeks. I wasn't going to be bested by Alia like that. She would have to give it her all.

So I said the one thing that I knew would provoke her. "I can't _wait _to watch your brains get bashed in. Are you excited for that, Alia? The Games are only one year from now, you know." I saw her expression go wild, and I smiled, adding, "You better keep getting it in while you still can. It's okay—you won't be alive for much longer. You shouldn't care too much if the guys think you're a _whore."_

And, like I knew it would, that set her off like a bomb. She broke our back and forth attack dance and went straight for my face, grabbing at my hair and slamming me down onto the ground. We squirmed around on the floor, rolling back and forth.

She sat herself on top of me, barely able to restrain me. "I don't get what anyone sees in you," she snarled. "You're one sick little fucker, you know that?"

"I'm a sick little fucker that can win the Games."

I threw her off of me, pinning her down by her shoulders.

"And then what?" she managed. "What'll you do when you win, huh? It's not like anyone will _want _you."

I snorted. "Boys respect me more than they do you."

She shrieked, and we tumbled back and forth again. The next time we came to a rest, she was on top of _me._

"Boys like the idea of _getting _with you because you're young and sadistic, it's like you're part of their demonfetish." She must've noticed my rage, because she gave me another one of her twisted smiles. "But me? There will always be a guy for me. Just look at Cato—I have him wrapped around my finger."

"He doesn't give a shit about you," I choked out. Now her hands were on my windpipe. "He only wants your body, but he thinks you're a waste of space."

She frowned. "Stop it."

"I bet he can't wait to kill you—then he'll win and you'll be out of his life. Is that what you're worried about? That he has someone else in mind?"

_ "Stop it,"_ she said, a little louder this time.

My pulse was racing. "Oh, I get it. That's why you hate me. You're the most popular girl here—you can't have your man fall for a sick little fucker like me, can you?"

_"I said stop it!"_ she shrieked. Now her hands were around my neck, and I felt the wind get knocked out of me. _"Enough! No more!"_

And like that, Marius was yelling at us to break it up, prying her off of me. She screamed some empty threats at me, but honestly, the rest of that day is all a blur in my memory.

I jerk awake, back to reality. I'm in the arena. I'm lying on the ground, a knife clutched in one hand and the other brushing against the dirt below me. I open my eyes.

Huh. That memory used to seem so insignificant. Alia and I had our fair share of contact over the years, and there were hundreds of instances like that one. But this memory is only becoming meaningful _now, _now that the Games are down to the wire and me and Cato are probably going to be the ones going home as Victors.

Shit. Cato.

He sees me before I see him, and as he barrels over I barely have time to groan.

"Clove," he demands.

I get to my feet, brushing the dirt off my jacket. "Fucking hell, give me a minute to wake up—"

He has me slammed against the tree trunk so fast, I have the wind knocked out of me. I look him in the eye, and I'm flashing back to the morning of the day the Games began, when we were in the Capitol and having a spat over breakfast and I had _him_ pinned against a wall.

But this is different. This is _real. _And this time, I'm the target.

I even forget that I have a knife in my hand.

"Cato—"

"Don't ever do that again," he says to me. His voice is accusing and thick with anger, and I know I'm in for it. "Don't _ever _walk out like that again."

"I just needed time to cool off—"

"Goddamnit, Clove, I woke up freaked."

"Cato—"

"_You can't just leave like that!"_

And now I hear the pain in his voice, and I feel a lump rising in my throat. I can see every scratch on his neck and the bloodshot veins in his eyes. It's almost enough to make my breath leave me.

I want to tell him to relax. I want to tell him that I'm right here, that I'm not going anywhere, that he's not going to lose me.

But before I can say anything, he punches me.

It's fast and square in the mouth, and it's enough to make me stagger. I don't fall to the ground, but I take a minute to regain my balance and to get my head to stop spinning. I've been punched a million times before—in training, walking home late at night, and even once when Alia and I were in a room together for too long. I know what a punch feels like. I know that some punches are harder than others, and I know it takes on hell of a punch to knock the wind out of me.

By the book, he doesn't punch me very hard. But because it's Cato, the pain is almost enough to bring tears to my eyes.

I feel his gaze fixated in my direction, burning into my skull as he stares at me, but over my dead body do I look up. Because right now, I'm genuinely unhinged. I'm choking back tears and white-hot fury and manic laughter all at the same time. It's a weird feeling.

What comforts me is that I can hear him breathing heavily. I know what's running through his mind.

_What did I just do?_

"You're one hell of a team player, Cato," I say. I bring myself to finally look at him, and I don't know what I expect to see, but it's surprising.

He's shocked. He's in genuine horror and he's looking back and forth from the red mark on my face to his right hand, which is still balled into a fist. If I want to hurt him, then this is my chance—this is my chance to torture him with his _humanity, _which is my absolute favorite thing in the world to do. Only an idiot can deny that words are the worst wounds, and my oh my, the things I could say to Cato right now that would scar him.

If it was anyone else, I would go for it. But it's Cato.

He takes a step back, his gaze now fixated with my eyes. I see a flicker in them I've never seen before. It's the look of prey, the look that I'm given when I'm about to attack and when my victim is given a split second of realization.

He looks so weak, standing in front of me.

Before I can so much as speak again, he's off, barreling down into the trees and storming through the woods.

"Who's leaving now, huh?" I call after him hoarsely. But I'm relieved he's gone, because now I have a chance to pull myself together. I take a deep breath, looking down to my knife and pocketing it in my bag. I unzip my bag and rifle through it, not even sure what I'm looking for. But at least it's giving me something rhythmic and methodic to do.

_You're thirsty, Clove, _I think to myself. _You're hungry and thirsty. You probably fix that. You can take care of whatever it is that's going on with Cato later._

That's the killer in me talking. That's murderer that's hell-bent on survival and making it out of these Games alive, that's the girl that's rifling through her bag and looking for her water bottle and some grub. But the teenage girl in me doesn't know _what _to do. Of part of her wants to curl back up on the ground and emotionally remove herself from this arena. Another part of me wants to run and find him, and then . . . and then . . . my hearts skips a beat. _And then what?_

But then I hear a shriek in the woods, with a definite note of fear in it.

_"Clove!"_

And like that, I bolt in his direction, not entirely sure if I'm the killer or the girl.

XXX

A/N: For those of you that live in the States, I hope you're enjoying the starts of your summers and Memorial Day. I personally have a few weeks of school left, but cheers to a Monday off!

As far as this plot-bunny goes, I hope you guys can see the plot thickening :D I'm almost done writing this fic, so check back regularly for new updates. I have a few ideas going for future Hunger Games fics (one of them _possibly_ being my next big monster-plot), but in the mean time, be sure to check out my other stories from this fandom-

_Words Not Spoken_ (fluffy Peetniss)

_The Other Games_ (Sexually charged Cato/Glimmer)

_Little Girl, Gentle Giant _(Sad Rue/Thresh) (Two-shot)

_Dangerous Waters _(One-sided Finnick/Johanna)

_Blessings _(Dysfunctional Clato)

All of these are one-shots unless otherwise noted.

Thank you so much for all of the continued love and support xx

Vikki


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: A disclaimer, first and foremost: This is unedited for the most part, except for grammatical changes. I was so in the zone writing this that I wanted to leave it alone as much as I could

_A Drug for Angels_

By WildPomegranate

_Chapter Seven_

Overgrown, porcupine Mutts were what I was facing back in the woods. By the time I'd found Cato, he was bloodied up with his sword far from his reach. He'd managed to hack away at a few of them before I'd gotten there, but there were two that were right on him, stampeding in his direction and knocking him off his feet. Normal porcupines can't get much bigger than raccoons, but these were _gigantic. _They were the size of wolves.

If he hadn't lost his sword early on, he probably wouldn't have screamed for my help. I made quick work of them with my knife, and in no time, I was dragging his unconscious ass back to the cornucopia.

I'm holding him in my arms as he wakes up. Porcupine quills are embedded in his skin, so I'm pulling them out of his back. There was one that was dug in really deep, so he winced awake as I pulled it out.

_"Agh," _I hear him say.

I put my lips by his ear. "_Ssh. _Hold still."

"What're you doing?"

"Helping you," I say as I pull another quill out. Now he's wide awake. "You're in lousy shape, those mutts really got you."

He weakly says, "Yeah, guess so," as I pull another one out of his back. He's seated upright, so he can't see my face. He puts his head down the slightest bit, reaching for the quills in his leg and pulling them out one by one.

We work in silence like this for a little bit. Okay, so maybe silence is a little generous, because Cato definitely gives the occasional wince. But there are a good ten minutes where not a word comes out of my mouth, and where we sit there like that, my hands grazing over his skin as I look to see where the damage is done. I notice something very un-Cato about him. He's not rejecting my help.

"There," I say as I pull the last quill out. "I think that's the last of them."

He nods, turning his head the smallest bit to look at me. He rips off his shirt and reaches for a first aid kit, and he starts smoothing antiseptic all over the gashes made by the mutts on his chest. It's then that I get a good look at him. His skin is an angry red where the mutts got him, but other than that, it's smooth and fair. It's hard to deny, looking at him this way—he's strong. He's as much of a physical presence as he is a mental one. His muscles are built, just to a point where they're large enough for heavy lifting, but still lean so they don't slow him down. I almost feel weak sitting next to him. Almost.

But he's a mental presence, too. At least he _was._

"Is your jaw okay?" he asks finally.

My hand flies to it instinctively, and memories of our fight from earlier come rushing back. "Well, it was better before you hit me," I say. I meant to sound sharp, but I don't.

He doesn't laugh, doesn't smile, doesn't show any sign of amusement. "So it's okay?"

"Yeah. Nothing to worry about."

He looks at me searchingly, and I figure that's the closest I'll get to an apology. As he does, I can't help but think, _his eyes are so blue. _You'd never expect someone so lethal to have eyes the color of the sky, considering your eyes are supposed to be a window to the soul. My eyes are a stony black, which suits a girl like me. Blue eyes shouldn't fit Cato, but for some reason, they do.

"You ran back for me in the woods," he says.

"I know."

"Why?" He peels his shirt off the ground and puts it on over his head. "I punched you and you still came running."

There's a question I wish I knew the answer to. "You needed help."

"You didn't know that."

"Yeah, I did. I heard you screaming. You wouldn't have screamed my name unless you reallyneeded me."

"Still." His eyes looked bewildered, but instead of being angry and frustrated like he usually is when he's confused, that's all I see. Pure, straight-up confusion. "Why would you risk it?" He sees the questioning look on my face and continues. "I know you, and I know how badly you want to win. And you knew you were walking into danger out there. So why would you risk it?"

My heart's pounding. I never thought of it that way. All I acted on was instinct.

"What's life without some danger?" I say.

"You could've died."

"But I didn't."

"Yeah, but you could've."

"Cato, we're a team. I'm not going to let you get killed on my watch."

He doesn't say anything to that. Instead he looks at me, and I can see the gears turning in his head. Honestly, I don't really get what I'm trying to say either. But isn't it _obvious _that I would've run back for him? Isn't it _obvious _I would've laid my life out on the line? We're a team. That's what teams do and that's how they win, a team doesn't work if you can't make sacrifices for the other person—

Oh no.

Oh no no no no no.

I don't even have time to hide the realization as it hits my face, because we've been looking each other in the eye the whole and he notices my expression before I can even make sense of it. But it doesn't take me long to make sense of it, because now blood is rushing to my face and it's the same story with him.

This isn't the first time this has happened between the two of us. But the difference between now and last night is that I don't run.

There's no use running at this point.

"You've changed. This arena, it's made you different. You care more," he says.

Now my throat's gone dry. "Believe me, Cato, I didn't need an arena to start caring." I can't believe the words as they come out of my mouth, and I know he can't either. "But you did, didn't you? You needed these Games until you could finally get a good look at me."

I didn't know when we started talking about each other, but we are now.

"That's not true," he says quietly.

"It sure as hell is."

"Clove, why d'you think I punched you earlier?"

"I . . . I don't know—"

"It's because I woke up and you were gone. It set me off," he says. He's running a hand through his hair and his eyes are darting in all directions. "I hated that they made us volunteer together, you know. I was miserable."

"What—"

"I've been looking in your direction for five years." He says it with finality and almost a breath of relief, as if he's lifting a burden off his shoulders. "You just never looked back."

And now my heart is racing. "You're District Two's Golden boy, why would you think for a secondthat I thought you felt that way?" I want to snort, but even I can't bring myself to sarcasm right now. This is all too real. "I'm the psychotic freak back at home. I'm an outcast_, _Cato, all of the girls hate me. And you had Alia wrapped around your finger, you had that whole harem of girls that are older and prettier than me—"

"They're not better than you." He gingerly places his hands on my shoulders.

"You can have any girl you want."

_"And it's always been you_."

And now five years of knife throwing are flashing before more eyes, five years of pointed conversations and calculated throws and picking up on each other's mannerisms better than anyone else we'd ever know. There was always that slight separation that comes with being three years younger, and I felt it most when we'd look across the gym at one another and he'd be talking to Alia or Mara. But then again, he wasn't looking at Alia or Mara. He was looking at _me. _He always was. He always had some smart comment when I was done sparring or a backhanded compliment with every bulls-eye I hit.

And then there's the Arena. There was him flirting with Glimmer but always having his eyes trail where I walk, and how she'd always make a point to get on my nerves _just barely._ And then there was the morning of the tracker jackers, and now in the midst of this all I can so clearly remember his hand grabbing mine as he guided me out of the swarm, leading me into Marvel's arms so the two of us could run to safety. I remember the look on his face when he saw our alliance was over and the look I got from him yesterday, when the two of us became a team.

And then there's the way he punched me, only a few hours ago.

_He's afraid of losing me_.

The girl in me wants to give in, to let _him _in, and to let myself feel what it's like to have someone care. But the killer in me needs to test one more boundary.

"Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I don't feel the same way?" I say.

His face is dangerously close to mine. His expression doesn't change. "Of course it has. But that's why I like you."

"Because I'm a challenge, right? I challenge you like no girl ever can," I say.

I pull away from him. _Stop, _the teenager in me is screaming. _Stop resisting._

He frowns the smallest bit. But it's a sad frown, not the angry ones I'm used to seeing.

"You're challenging, alright, but you feel something for me."

"Maybe I don't." His grip around my shoulders is tightening.

He shakes his head. "That's a lie."

My hands remain balled at my sides.

"Maybe the only thing I'm capable of romantically is bloodlust. Did you ever think about that?"

And now I know I've said the entirely wrong thing.

"Bloodlust, huh? I don't think that's it. You want something much sweeter than that, you just can't face it." He shakes his head and brings his lips right up by mine. My heart stops. He whispers to me gently, "You're such a liar, Clove," as he closes the space between us.

I've imagined kissing Cato before, and I've always imagined it the same way—rough, aggressive, and fueled by anger, with nothing sweet and romantic about it. But instead his lips press against mine gently, and in all of the tenderness, I can't help but brush my hands against his face. Sure, boys have kissed me before, but I've never kissed them back. I live in a tough neighborhood of District Two, and if there's one thing guys want, it's sex, no matter how much they have to force themselves on a girl.

But Cato isn't forcing me. His hands don't leave my shoulders the entire time.

All the while, my heart's pounding out of my chest. _Stop, stop, this isn't right. _Blood is rushing to my face and my veins feel like they're on fire, and I can't even bring myself to think of the Games or my mentors or killing right now, because all I can think about is this _boy,_ and his blue eyes and messy blonde hair, the way he looks at me when we're alone and how he's the only person in the world right now that can protect me.

He's consuming me.

A part of me wants so badly not to feel. _You shouldn't trust Cato. You shouldn't let him in. He isn't good for you. _And that part is right—Cato is the absolute _worst _thing for me, and it goes both ways.

But I'll be damned if the worst thing doesn't feel like the best thing right now.

He's the one that pulls away and looks me in the eye. We both sit like that for a minute, neither of us speaking, both of us drinking in the moment like the psycho cases we are.

_That's what we are. Psycho cases._

"You're coming home with me."

He says it in such a way that I know I don't have a choice.

"And what if I say no?" I respond. My voice is faint.

"You won't." He brushes away the hair that's falling in my face. "What," he says, his signature smirk creeping on his face, "is that too much to ask?"

_Clove, goddammit, don't do it._

I shake my head anyway. "No. It's not."

He smiles and leans down to kiss me again, but I stop him.

"This doesn't change who we are, Cato," I tell him. "We're still burning in hell."

_Now _he kisses me. As he pulls away he looks me in the eye and says, "Fuck yeah it does. When we burn, we'll burn together."

XXX

**A/N:** I've written dozens of confession scenes, and it's safe to say that this is one of my favorites. I originally meant this story to be a one-shot, but I found myself unable to write this moment realistically without all of the buildup. Hopefully this worked out as well as I intended, I personally think it did and I hope you guys feel the same way :D

Plugs to my other fics—

_Words Not Spoken_ (fluffy Peetniss)

_The Other Games_ (Sexually charged Cato/Glimmer)

_Little Girl, Gentle Giant _(Sad Rue/Thresh) (Two-shot)

_Dangerous Waters _(One-sided Finnick/Johanna)

_Blessings _(Dysfunctional Clato)

All of these are one-shots unless otherwise noted.

Thank you for all of the feedback, love and support xx

Vikki


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Fact: I should be studying for my English final right now. Fact: I feel more inclined to update my fanfic.

Enjoy! :D

~Vikki

_A Drug for Angels_

By WildPomegranate

_Chapter Eight_

"Aghhh!"

I snap awake at the sound of Cato wincing, and this is the third time it's happened tonight. He shrugged it off before, but now I sit upright and turn to face him.

"Again, really?" I say.

He rips off his shirt and sure enough, his wounds are an angry red, with blood seeping through at the opening.

"This sleeping arrangement isn't working out," I tell him as I shift away. I didn't even realize it when I fell asleep lying across him.

"No, stay."

"Can't you see the color of your skin?" I snap. "I'm reopening your wounds."

He scowls at the word 'wounds.' "Are you kidding? What, d'you think I'm going to give up sleeping with a girl because of a few scratches?"

Of _course _he'd phrase it that way. He laughs because I'm rolling my eyes. "You wish, pervert." I grab another blanket and drape it over me a good yard away from him. "And they're not scratches. I'll be pissed if you become an invalid, because I'm not playing nurse."

He rolls his eyes. "You're _so _maternal," he says sarcastically under his breath.

I don't note the connotation of it right away, but like I find myself doing a lot lately, I can tell what's running through his head.

_You're _so _maternal . . . we have work to do in that department._

Ick. Childbirth. That's my thought in response.

"Get some sleep," I snap at him. "We're getting down to the wire, we might as well go home soon."

"Yeah. Then you can sleep in my bed all you want."

I can't see him, but I know his lips are curled up into a smile.

"Not until your wounds heal," I mutter in response.

"Well. That's better than a no."

I don't have anything to say to that.

XXX

The scratches look a little better the next morning, but slightly if anything. I'm learning that those mutts were more than just overgrown porcupines, because they've done some serious damage to my district partner. The skin of Cato's damaged flesh burns in the sunlight, and even though he's trying to hide it, he's been backing into the shade all day. Searching the other tributes has also been a bust. At this point, there's a reason they're all still alive, and the only one we're counting on that will die spontaneously is Lover Boy. But by now Katniss has found him, so the chances of us killing today are slim.

It's making him antsy and it's making me antsy. Thank fucking God Cato's injuries are almost enough to distract me.

"Here," I say, taking my jacket out of my bag and handing it to him. "Don't be stupid."

"It's boiling out."

"Yeah, and your skin can't be exposed in the sunlight. We're not going to find Five or Eleven in the deep woods, so let's get back out there."

He looks to the jacket and then to me, and finally agrees and pulls it on. He puts one of his beat up arms in the sunlight, and even though he winces the smallest bit, he says, "Much better."

"You're welcome."

We walk along in silence for a bit. He's slower and louder than usual, and it's wearing on my patience. He brushes his hand against mine, but I jerk away, saying, "The world is watching."

He snorts. "They were watching last night. What's the difference now?"

_Shit._ In the heat of everything, I hadn't really thought of that. But we were inside a tent and it was dark last night, so visibility would've been pissy. That and I doubt any of our footage would be cleared by Enobaria.

Ahh. Crap. Enobaria.

Cato must've noticed my smirk, because he laughs and says, "How much hair d'you think she's ripped out by now?"

I don't even have to ask who he's talking about. "We're in for it when we get home."

But even as we walk and laugh in this sundrenched field, there's a pressing thought in the back of my mind. Enobaria was worried about me and Cato getting too friendly right off the bat. Obviously that's not even an issue anymore, because the two of us have failed in that department. But it's hitting me now that her main message wasn't about the romance. I think darkly, _she'd probably be thrilled to see us ripping the clothing off of one another if it meant sexualized hatred. _Her real fear is seeing me and Cato go soft.

_Have _we gone soft?

Impossible.

But now Cato has his hand on the small of my back. And I'm not so sure.

"Stop," I snap at him.

"Awh, c'mon, don't be like that."

"Do you want to win or not?"

He snorts. "We're going to win. What, who's going to stop us, the Girl on Fire and her terminal boyfriend?"

"Get off your fucking high horse. You're injured too."

He ignores that. "_Obviously _I want to win, Clove. You don't need to ask."

"Good. Then don't let the last twenty-four hours change that." I don't even remember I have a filter when I snap, "You were obsessive before, so be obsessive now. Being lovedrunk doesn't make for good killers."

The look on his face is now slightly contorted. Shit. Lover or not, I've forgotten what a short fuse he has. After all, he punched me in the face yesterday.

Thankfully I don't have to relive that experience, because it's then that we hear the announcement.

_"Attention tributes, attention tributes—congratulations on making it to the final six. As a reward, we will be hosting a feast in your honor. Now hold on. Some of you may already be declining my invitation. But this is no ordinary feast. Each of you needs something desperately."_

I look to Cato, and he's looking right back at me. _What the?_

_"Each of you will find that something in a backpack, marked with your district number, at the Cornucopia at dawn. Thank hard about refusing to show up. For some of you, this will be your last chance."_

And like that, I snap to Cato, because I sorely realize there's something I've missed.

"Get out of the sun. Now."

"Clove, what the hell—"

He doesn't have any more time to object, because I've already pushed him into the shade and have ripped his jacket and shirt off. His face is flushing from excitement, and it crosses my mind that he probably thinks I'm stripping him, but his hormones will just have to calm the fuck down for one second. As I see his skin I immediately jerk my hands away from the wounds made by the mutts, because I realize that the two of us have made a fatal error.

_"Fuck," _I tell him.

He looks down. If he wasn't so battle hardened he would probably recoil, but charred skin and pus-filled flesh is something he's used to. My jacket does absolutely nothing against the sunlight. Maybe it minimizes the pain or maybe Cato's faking that, I don't really know, but the sun is definitely making his skin worse.

"It's not infected," he says, frowning. "At least I don't feel like I am."

"Then how does it feel?"

"Like any old flesh would."

I gingerly put my hands to the gashes in his skin. I think of how they looked this morning, a little less inflamed than the night before but still far from healed. Even now that we're out of the sun, I feel that the swelling in his skin is diminishing the slightest every second. Okay, so I don't necessarily "feel" the swelling, but I'm definitely getting that vibe. A normal human being wouldn't, but I think by now it's pretty obvious that I'm not a normal human being.

"Clove," he says quietly.

I look up, my hands still pressed against his chest, and find his face right by mine. I shake the feeling I'm getting. _There's six of us, _I remind myself. _It's go time._

"You're not allowed out in the sun anymore," I tell him. My voice sounds foreign, because I'm staring into those blue eyes of his.

"We're not in the sun right now," he mutters.

I expect it when his lips come crashing down on mine. I expect the same feeling I got last night. What I don't expect is to find his hands around my hips, reaching to pull the fabric down.

"Cato . . ." I say as I break for a second. He works my pants halfway down my thighs. I've never felt so exposed. "Cato," I say a little more sternly this time.

Oh, he wouldn't have stopped. If I was Glimmer or Alia or Mara or anyone else he would keep at it. But I'm not.

He looks me in the eyes, and wordlessly pulls the cargo back up until it rests on my hips, where it belongs. He holds my face with one hand.

"Not now, right?" he says. His tone is surprisingly bitter.

"Believe me, I want to—"

"Oh, I know you do," he groans. "Fuck it, Clove, you don't need to be so guarded around me."

My face goes red. I don't know what to say to that.

"You know I'm right," he taunts.

I pull away from him. Too many things are running through my mind right now. I _want _to want him, but not here. Last night was different. Today, we're back in the Games.

"We'll talk about it when we win," I say finally. I stalk off into the woods, and he wordlessly follows me. "I _promise,"_ I drawl out, because I know he's expecting me to say something else, "But right now, you can't get too wrapped up in this. The Games aren't over yet."

I look behind me, and I notice the look on his face. He nods. That's when I know I've gotten through to him, because Cato—being the arrogant, disagreeable personality he is—never nods. And with that, he gives me his signature smirk, punching my arm only semi-playfully.

"I'm ready for this feast, aren't you?" he says with a wink.

"Oh, I'm definitely ready." My lips curl into a matching smile. "Ready to end them."

Whatever spell was cast over us last night, it's now broken. It's a good spell, granted, and it feels _right, _but it's not right in the arena. My feelings for him haven't changed. But I'm the killer again, and so is he.

What a terrifying duo we make.

A/N: I know this chapter was on the short side, but I figured we'd need on more character building chapter before the grand finale. That being said, yes, the next chapter will most likely be the last to this multi-chap plot bunny (though I'm still debating whether or not to add an epilogue.)

Thanks you so much for reading, as always. Be sure to leave a review, criticism is more than welcome.

Plugs to my other fics:

_Words Not Spoken_ (fluffy Peetniss)

_The Other Games_ (Sexually charged Cato/Glimmer)

_Little Girl, Gentle Giant _(Sad Rue/Thresh) (Two-shot)

_Dangerous Waters _(One-sided Finnick/Johanna)

_Blessings _(Dysfunctional Clato)

All of these are one-shots unless otherwise noted.

Blessings,

Vikki


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: Behold—the final chapter! I'm going to get the author's note out of the way right now, because I don't want to tack anything on to the ending:

Big thanks to all of you that have read this plot bunny, whether you've stuck with it from the beginning or are just finding it now. Spending quality time writing Cato and Clove for the last two months has been really cool, to say the least. These two have completely changed my FF experience and are most definitely an OTP of mine.

That being said, writing this ending was a little bittersweet for me. Before starting this fic I knew I'd take this direction, because I'm trying to keep Cato and Clove's story as canon as possible. I can't begin to tell you how satisfied I am with how this ended, but there's a part of me that wants to explore the alternative, and who knows? I just might one day. Even though I feel like my work is done in the Clato department, I'm sad to be leaving these two behind.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much to all of my readers and reviewers. It was an absolute pleasure to write this fic, and your love and support made it all the sweeter xx

Blessings,

Vikki

_A Drug for Angels_

By WildPomegranate

_Chapter Nine_

I wake up well before dawn, and I'm not surprised to see that Cato has done the same. Good. We still needed to devise a plan and scope out the Cornucopia. It won't be long before we attack.

"Someone's dying today," he mutters in my ear.

We give ourselves another five minutes in our sleeping bag before we get up, rolling out and stretching in the dark. He's not wearing much, and neither am I. We didn't do much of anything last night. The lack of clothing was more out of comfort, because at this point the jackets on our backs are covered in grime and sweat. Maybe we kissed last night—I can't even remember—but it was mostly talking. I can't remember any of the details (maybe I said something about my dad) but I know that we fell asleep in the comfort of each other's arms.

Now we're circling around where the feast will be, picking through the forest and where we think Thresh, Katniss and Five will come from. His voice is excited and thirsty as he looks through the trees, but every time he turns to me I see that excitement diminish the smallest bit. I'm confident that we'll both be killing today, but something isn't registering with him.

"You seem tense," I say.

He laughs. "Since when did you become a mind reader?"

I smirk. "It's not hard to read someone's mind when you're exactly like them."

He snorts, but seems grateful. "So you think that I'm like you?"

"We both have an affinity for murder." I think before adding, "You're killing today, Cato. There's no way around that. So don't make yourself anxious."

"I'm not fucking anxious." He leans closer to me and puts his hands on my waist. "Just give me the girl." A wicked smile curls on his face. "Give me Twelve, and then these Games are over. She's the one I need to end."

"And what if you can't get to Twelve?"

Fuck. Wrong thing to say. His eyes bear into mine, and I can't tell for a second if he's going to punch me or kiss me.

He kisses me.

But this isn't like anything else that's happened in the arena. There's no romance behind it, no emotional tenderness and the only thing driving it is his anger towards Twelve. And, by God, do I kiss him back. I could stand like a stone wall, which was how I was whenever we'd kissed before, because matters of love were beyond me. But this isn't love. His hands everywhere, his lips are crashing down on mine and the buzzing feeling I'm getting in my head . . . this is desire, in its most potent form. I wouldn't have him any other way.

I can practically see Enobaria going, _Yes, thank fucking God, FINALLY._ It looks like we've given her the sexualized footage she's been looking for.

"Let me have her," I breathe. His grip around my waist tightens. "You know what I'm capable of. So if you can't get to her, let _me _do it."

He thinks for a long second.

"You better make it a work of art, sweetheart."

_Sweetheart. _He says it with such dripping sarcasm the words might as well have come out of my mouth.

"I'll give the audience a good show," I say with a smile.

_ That_ kind of romance is the interaction the audience wants to see. But as much as I hate to admit it, and as wrong as it feels, I know that tender and sweet is the way things are going to go between us once we leave this arena. Sexualized hatred won't get us anywhere; the two of us have enough spite to last a lifetime. The connection is what we need. _This—_whatever it is—is the only thing keeping me human.

We trudge along for a little longer. It's getting light out. He turns to me after about half a mile of walking. We're still concealed in the woods, but the Cornucopia is within eyesight.

Our plan is simple—we attack. Further instruction isn't necessary. At this point, we know how to read each other. If I attack, so does Cato. If Cato retreats, I do too. If one of us screams the other's name, it means we're in trouble. These rules are set without us having to say a word.

"I'll go in for the girl—you try and take out the Five and Eleven."

"They'll be waiting in the woods."

"Exactly," I tell him. "We need to be in two places at once."

He nods. He thinks for a second before finally saying the piece of advice I know he's been thinking this entire time.

"Clove?"

I turn to him.

"We're going to win."

"I know."

"I know _you _know, but . . ." he runs a hand through his hair. "Don't hold back, don't play on the defense, and give the audience what they want. But remember your humanity."

I throw my arms around him, not giving myself much time to think on what he's said because the sky's getting lighter by the second. I whisper in his ear so only the two of us can hear me say,

"You ass, you _are _my humanity, and I think it goes both ways. I'm never going to forget that."

I don't even know exactly what I just said. But I know that it's true.

I pull away, and now I'm getting nervous. It's almost dawn. I give him a look that plain as day says, _you should go. Time to get down to business._

He nods. "We'll make sense of that later," he says. His voice sounds far off.

I give him a smile. I press three fingers to my lips, but I don't hold them out to the sky. I keep them right there, and back away from him, not daring to turn around until after I've lost sight of his blue eyes.

XXX

The bush I'm sitting in is a good fifty yards away from the backpacks. When I see the redhead dark out from the Cornucopia, I have half a mind to send a knife after her. But I stay where I am, because Five's run off in the woods, and Cato will no doubt see her there. _Wait for Twelve, _I remind myself. _She's the one you're killing today._

And then I see her.

The second she bursts out of the trees, I already have a knife flying in her direction. She deflects in with her bow and loads an arrow, shooting it at me. I dodge it as much as I have to—it's not a fatal hit—but the weapon lodges in my left arm. I touch the wounded flesh, profanities running through my mind. Infuriated, I rip it out, looking back up to see she's already reached the table.

_"Bitch!" _I hiss, sending a knife right at her.

My face flushes in excitement as I see that I've gotten her in the forehead, not fatal enough to kill her but still gory enough to satisfy. _Yes._

She staggers for a second, confused, and it's just enough time for me to knock her to the ground. I pin her down, knees on her shoulders, and watch as she struggles under me.

I give myself a second. I take a second to take in the look of her, all bloodied up and helpless. I don't see fear in her eyes or any form of plea, which makes me snarl. This girl isn't like the other tributes—she's a fighter. She won't go down begging like the others.

_The braver they are, the more they'll bleed, _I think with relish.

"Where's your boyfriend, District Twelve? Still hanging on?"

It's a catty jab, but it works they way I want it to. She's angry.

"He's out now. Hunting Cato." My breath hitches at the sound of his name. Then she screams at the top of her lungs, "_Peeta!_"

It's out of instinct that I jam my fist against her windpipe, and then I turn to the woods and scan them for any sign of Lover Boy. So she wants to make this a showdown of the star-crossed lovers, does she? It's not like she knows what's going on between me and Cato, but her threat is effective. It almost scared me.

Almost.

"Liar," I say with a smile. "He's nearly dead. Cato knows where he cut him." My grin widens with her reaction to this, and I know that another word about Peeta will have her out of her mind. "You've probably got him strapped up in some tree while you try to keep his heart going. What's in that pretty little backpack? That medicine for Lover Boy? Too bad he'll never get it."

I open my jacket, deciding that the look of rage in her eyes is only a small taste of what I really want. Now I want this bitch to _hurt. _I want to end her, and I want to make it a long, beautiful work of art. Because she's the real enemy here, with her defender-of-the-helpless and star-crossed lover act. I smile, thinking of the stark difference of our romances and how they grew in the Games. How mine and Cato's were vetoed by Enobaria, and if any footage is passed it's meant to highlight our brutality. We have to hide our romance, to keep it a secret from the Capitol. But _this _filth, this _bitch _from District Twelve, her "chemistry" with Lover Boy is a sad excuse for a strategy that would help her win the Games. Too fucking bad for them, because right now, it looks their efforts were wasted.

Oh, how mine and Cato's chemistry would dethrone theirs at _our _victory interviews. Because once Cato and I are Victors, there won't be a point to hide what's going on between us. Whatever the cameras have caught, I'm sure it's better than the fake sap Twelve's putting up.

But for now, I'll just have to get under her skin some other way, because the star-crossed lovers of District Two are still a secret. So I decide that the defender-of-the-helpless Katniss Everdeen could use some heartbreaking.

"Forget it, District Twelve. We're going to kill you. Just like we did you pathetic little ally . . . what was her name? The one who hopped around in trees? Rue?" Her eyes widen in anger at the sound of her name. "Well, first Rue, then you, and then I think we'll just let nature take care of Lover Boy. How does that sound? Now, where to start?"

I have her right where I want her. I survey her face, wiping the blood away from her wound, wondering, _do I gouge out her eyes first? Or do I go for the lips? How about I rip her teeth out, one by one?_

She tries to bite my hand, but I yank her by the hair, forcing her head back on the ground. "I think . . ." my heart is racing in excitement, "I think we'll start with your mouth."

I trace the outline of her lips with the tip of my blade, thinking of how thin and pale they've gotten over the duration of the Games. This girl isn't the beauty the Capitol cracks her up to be. In my opinion, she's the ugliest creature in these Games.

She stares me down, and I know what she's thinking. _You won't defeat me. I'm not going to scream, and I'm not going to cry. I'm going to die with dignity._

Well, I figure, _I'll just have to challenge you on that._

"Yes, I don't think you'll have much use for your lips anymore. Want to blow Lover Boy one last kiss?"

She spits in my face, and I know, I _know_ that I'm being that girl right now. I'm being that bitch, that Career, that villain that can't wait to get her bloodthirsty hands and on her victims. But that's what feels right for me. That's the path I've chosen, and it's the path I've been on since I was ten years old.

I was born to be a demon.

But my face is flushing, because now I'm thinking of the alternative, and I'm trying to push it to the back of my mind as I say, "All right then. Let's get started."

I barely have a chance to break her skin before I feel the Earth being yanked from under me.

I'm dangling in the air, and I whip around and find myself facing the monstrosity from Eleven. His nostrils are flared in rage, and there's only one thought that forces its way out of my mind in all of the panic.

_This isn't happening right now._

He flips me around and flings me to the ground, and I scramble back on all fours. He shouts at me, and it feels like the ground is shaking under me, because the boy from Eleven is _loud._

"What'd you do to that little girl? You kill her?"

_That's _what this is about!

I flail in my surprise, not knowing what to say, because that little girl's death seems so trivial to me. "No! No, it wasn't me!"

"You said her name. I heard you. You kill her?" His eyes widen in anger as he screams, "You cut her up like you were going to cut up this girl here?"

_Fuck you, Marvel! _is what I would say, under a different circumstance. But this is no time for sarcasm, because this is real, this is real and _right now _and the possibility I never accepted is staring me in the face. There's a chance I could die, and I won't be able to stop it.

I'm terrified.

"No! No, I—"

I see the stone then. It's large, and in his hands, I know that it's deadly.

That chance I was talking about? Now it's becoming a reality.

_"Cato!" _I screech. "_Cato!"_

I hear his answer. It's far off, but it's there.

"Clove!"

I don't have any more time to scramble away as Thresh brings the rock down against my head.

My heart beats. My breath slows. The pain isn't immediate or even really present for that matter, because I'm _dying, _dammit, and adrenaline is coursing through my body. Even when I should be in agonizing pain, it never comes. There's a static buzz in my head, and it makes the next minute a blur. Are Twelve and Eleven talking? Has he decided to spare her? I have no idea.

But now I know it's done. I'd force a tear or two out of my eyes (even though I've never cried before in my life) but I can't because of the buzzing. _So this is what it feels like to die, _I think. _This is what a slow death feels like. _It's agony, alright, but not in the way I'd expect. It's agony because I'm lying on the ground paralyzed. There's nothing I can do to prevent the inevitable; all that's left is for me to wait for the end.

_"Clove!"_

Cato's voice pierces through the air, and it's closer than ever, with a tone of definite desperation. That's when I feel the first wave of emotion wash over me. My heart (or whatever is left of it at this point) pounds out of my chest, and I want nothing more in the world to be able to cry right now, because _fuck it,_ I've just lost everything. I'm dying in the field I spent years dreaming about. I'm dying in the Games I'm supposed to win. I'm dying holding hands with a boy that's probably going to die soon too.

"Stay with me, Clove," he pleas. Oh, my God, this isn't happening right now. This is _not _real, because the murderous brute from District Two is not crying over my practically-dead body. And the insane girl with the knives is not wishing for consciousness, not begging for it above anything else in the world (including life itself) if it means getting to give this boy the goodbye he deserves.

But this is happening right now.

I _am _begging to speak, I'm begging to God (or whatever deity is out there) to give me my voice for just a minute if it means being able to say what I want to say.

_I'm sorry._

_ I'll miss you,_

_ We should've won._

_ You made my life different._

_I think__ I love you._

But I can't. I can't say anything, because I'm dying, slowly and more painfully than any old flesh wound.

I don't catch most of Cato's futile pleas, because my ears don't want to function. They're shutting down, along with everything else. But one plea does make its way to my ears, and it's the only one that matters.

"This is it for me, Clove. There isn't going to be anything left of me if you die." His voice breaks. "You _are _my humanity, you can't leave me, I need you because I need _me_ . . ."

And that's all that I need to hear. His hand continues to grasp mine, and I try with all of the energy I have to left to give him a squeeze back, just so he knows that I listened.

He's right, about his humanity. I don't know when and I can't explain how, but at some point, I realized it would be either both of us or none of us as Victors. When one of us went, so would the other. Maybe not physically, but mentally. How was _I _supposed to stay mentally in check when the lifeline I was tethered to was Cato's? How was he supposed to (scratch that, going to) do the same, now that I'm gone?

He's dead. Maybe not in body, but in soul.

But I try not to think about that. I don't ask him to try to win for me, I don't ask him to move on, I don't ask him to be strong, because that all means the same thing. If he survives, there's no way around it—he'll lose himself.

My parting thought was this, and it's one that I desperately hope he heard:

_Go looking for me when we burn in hell, and I'll meet you halfway._

_ Always._

XXX

_Epilogue_

If I tried sneaking into heaven, I know what would happen. Gabriel would catch me right away, grab me by the shoulders and give me an angelic—but sad—smile. "Nice try, kiddo," is what he'd tell me before I was carted off to Satan.

Thankfully, I didn't try any shit with Gabriel. I laughed at the gates and checked myself in where I belonged. There was a pit of fire with my name on it, just as Cato said._ Clove Fuhrman._

I didn't have to wait long for my District partner to join me. My death didn't break him by any means—it made him stronger, if anything, because after I died he became the monster he always wanted to be.

Monsters win the Games, after all. It's too unlucky he died.

That being said, I wish the best of luck to Katniss _fucking _Everdeen, who I'm sure will be joining me in Hell soon enough. But I can't say the same for Peeta Mellark. He's not a demon, he's just one lucky bastard. I'm sure Gabriel would let him right on in through those pearly white gates.

But now? Now I'm living in the inevitable. I'm being charred down to the bone every waking minute for the rest of eternity. The difference between this agony and the last agony I felt on Earth is that there's no adrenaline to save me. But I'd take this pain any day.

I'm damned, but I'm whole now.

There was never a glimmer of salvation in my life. Even when I realized I loved Cato as I took my last breath, humanity was wasted on a girl like me. Maybe if we'd won, things would be different. Maybe if we had years of growing together and becoming tender and soft, we would see the light and find our way to goodness. But that's the tricky thing about dying young. You don't have time to change your mind and take the other path. You're stuck with whatever path you were going on.

I'd be a demon over an angel any day. Being a demon is what lead me to Cato. That's not to say that whatever lead me to Cato is the greatest common denominator, not by any means. But right now, it's a lot sweeter holding someone's hand while I burn than being alone.

I don't know how I did it for so long. I don't know how I tolerated being alone and shutting everyone out, because now that I have someone, I can't imagine life (or death) without him.

Days, years, and decades go by. Sometimes we talk. Sometimes we don't. It's a difficult thing to do in the burning.

He turns to me and says, "I wouldn't have it any other way, you know."

I smile. "I know."

"But d'you think we'll leave this behind one day?"

I shrug. I never really thought like that. I always figured that Hell is where I belonged. But then again, that was when I was young. That was before I had time. With an eternity, I could give salvation a chance

"Maybe," I say finally. "We can find ourselves and do all of that shit, if you want. But I'm not going without you."

He pulls me in for a kiss, but just before he does that, he whispers in my ear,

"Light or dark, I'll follow you anywhere."

And I know he means it.


End file.
